


Seven For A Secret

by Ravenstone



Series: A Murder of Magpies [7]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 66,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in fact, there are at least seven secrets in this story....</p><p>A locked room murder takes place in Macklin's training facility, and Willis is keen to pin the murder of one of his men on Macklin, Magpie or Towser - or all three. Bodie and Doyle are called in by Cowley to ensure MI6 play by the book, while Magpie goes into hiding in a most unexpected place. Bodie and Doyle have to find the murderer before Willis manages to fabricate enough evidence to pin the crime on Macklin, or before Macklin and Towser disappear in MI6's usual manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Macklin wiped his muddied hands across his already dirty t-shirt with a look of fastidious disapproval before pushing open the door to the showers with his elbow, leaving a streak of mud behind him. Towser looked up from pushing his clothes into his bag and grinned.

“You know that's supposed to be good for the skin?” Towser said.

Macklin shot him a look of ill-concealed displeasure. “I don't want to know what's in this,” he growled darkly, pulling the t-shirt off over his head. He used the filthy shirt to wipe more of the mud from his face and hair.

“Where've you been?” Towser asked.

“Assault course,” Macklin replied, checking his reflection, still trying to remove the worst of the dirt. “Smoke grenade failed to detonate, and of course, it had to be right in the middle of the biggest mud pit out there.”

“They must do it deliberately,” Towser said with a smile.

“Six don't have the intelligence,” Macklin replied with a teasing smile. They currently had eight of MI6's 'finest' in for evaluation and training, and the interdepartmental competitiveness was legendary.

“I thought you were with Six?”

Towser ducked as Macklin threw his mud covered t-shirt at him, narrowly missing him. Not that Towser felt too pleased; he knew that the only reason Macklin ever missed anything was because he intended to.

“Amongst others,” Macklin replied. “Why do you think I'm qualified to comment?”

Towser finished pushing his stained clothes and towel into his bag, as Macklin washed his hands in the sink. “Where's Maggie?” he asked at last.

Towser inclined his head, indicating the shower stalls. “In there.”

Macklin grinned. “I see. And you were?”

“Keeping my eyes closed,” Towser replied firmly. He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Don't blame me they don't give us separate showers just because we have a female instructor.”

Macklin turned to him. “I wasn't blaming you,” he replied calmly. “You don't hear me complaining, do you?” he said with a wolfish smile.

Towser laughed as he made for the door. “I'll just lock this behind me, then?”

“Might be wise.” Macklin dried his hands before opening his locker to find his own towel and dry clothes.

“I'll see you in the morning,” Towser called out as he closed the door behind him.

“Yes. Good night,” Macklin replied. He heard the door click behind Towser and looked towards it with a thoughtful expression, before striding over and checking the door himself. He grinned when he found the lock had fallen into place.

He undid the belt on his jeans as he looked towards the shower stalls, hearing the distinct sound of running water.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie rested her hands on the cool tiles, enjoying the sensation of the warm water flowing over her head and through her hair. She had washed away the sweat and dirt of the day's training, and now simply enjoyed the gentle caress of the water over her body, letting it wash away the aches and pains of the day.

She barely registered the touch against her back, reacting immediately and instinctively. Fortunately for Macklin, he had anticipated her response, blocking the retaliatory blow and side stepping to avoid the foot threatening to stamp down hard on his instep. He wrapped her in his embrace, feeling her muscles relax as she recognised him.

“What kept you?” she said, before her face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “You're filthy!” she accused, squirming to get free from him as the water turned the mud from his hair and body into rivulets of dirty water running down him and onto her.

“Unexploded smoke grenade,” he explained. “What about you? You weren't around earlier.”

“Recoil spring failed in one of the Kalashnikovs,” she replied, wriggling free from his embrace and reaching for the soap. “Had to check all the others had been field stripped and cleaned before I could fix it.”

She lathered the soap in her hands before beginning to wash down his broad chest. He tilted his head back under the shower, allowing the water to stream through his hair. He took the soap from her hands and continued to wash off the unspeakable grime of the assault course. When she handed him the shampoo, he exchanged it for the soap with a shy smile of thanks.

“I was clean, until you arrived,” she accused him.

“Don't pretend you don't love it,” he replied.

She laughed and turned him around, soaping over his broad shoulders and down his back. “Only because I'm not letting you near me until you're clean.” She reached up to tousle his hair, letting the water rinse the lather to run down his back. She took the shampoo from him and applied more, running her fingers through his sandy blond hair. He closed his eyes and groaned with pleasure.

He almost purred under her hands. “That feels good.” She laughed as the water washed the lather free, leaving his hair dark gold and clean. He ran his hands over his hair, pushing the excess water free, before shaking his head quickly, blinking droplets clear from his eyes to look down at her. He picked up the soap and ran his hands gently over her shoulders, turning her around to lather her back.

“I'm already clean,” she pointed out.

“You want me to stop?” he asked.

“Not if you want to live,” she replied with a smile, closing her eyes. She flinched and let out a yelp.

“What's this?” He frowned as he examined the reddened area on her back, next to her hip, where a bruise was beginning to form.

“It's nothing,” she replied, dismissively.

“I thought you were on the firing ranges all day,” he persisted. “What happened?”

“I was. I just slipped outside, hit the basin.” She shrugged. “No big mystery.”

He knelt down quickly to brush his lips against the injury, looking up to see her smiling at him fondly. “You should be more careful,” he admonished, laying gentle kisses against the mark.

“You give me a job where various men and women try different ways to disable or kill me every day of the week, and complain when I get a bruise?” she said.

He stood up, turning her around and pulling her against him under the spray, the warm water flowing over them. “No-one said I have to be logical all the time,” he growled. He kissed her, until she spluttered and laughed as the water covered her face.

 

# # # # # # #

 

The commotion in the hallway woke Macklin even before the pounding at his door. He tightened his hold around Maggie as the noises disturbed her sleep, reassuring her before her startled surprise could turn defensive. He touched a finger to his lips, indicating for her to stay silent as he left the bed, padding to the door on bare feet. He wore only jersey lounge pants, loosely tied around his lean hips. The cruel scars of his old gunshot wound showed above the waist band, across his flat abdomen.

He opened the door a crack. “What is it?” he demanded.

Maggie could not see the man outside, but she recognised the voice of one of the MI6 agents.

“It's Reynolds, sir. He's dead.” The man sounded out of breath and on the edge of panic.

Macklin frowned. “Dead?”

“Yes, sir,” the man confirmed. Taylor, Maggie thought, finally placing the voice. “We heard noises and thought we'd investigate, and found him.”

“Alright, alright,” Macklin said decisively. “Wait here, I'll be out in a minute.”

He closed the door on the man, and switched on the light. Maggie huddled beneath the sheet, shielding her eyes from the bright light. “Best get dressed,” he said. “We're going to have company.”

“Did he say Reynolds is dead?” she asked, throwing back the sheet and shivering as the cold air met her bare skin.

“Yes,” Macklin confirmed, reaching for clean clothes and dressing quickly. Maggie joined him, throwing on clothes as quickly as she found them.

“Best call in Six,” she said.

Macklin pulled a t-shirt over his head, his dark blond hair tousled. “I don't want them crawling all over my facility,” he growled.

“We need an independent medic, someone to give the cause of death,” she said. She zipped up her jeans with a frown. “But all he's done today is the assault course and rifle range. No contact, nothing.”

“I know. We have to see what's going on.”

Another rap against the door interrupted them. Macklin opened the door. “What is it now?” he snapped. “His condition can hardly have improved.”

The agent gaped at him, momentarily stunned by Macklin's cold anger. “It's the Controller, sir. He wants to see you.”

Macklin frowned. “How the hell did he get here so soon?” he demanded.

Taylor looked uncomfortable. “He was called immediately, sir. As soon as they found the body.”

Macklin glared at the man in silence, only the white knuckled grip of the door indicating the anger coursing through him. Maggie appeared at the door, taking Taylor by surprise. The nature of the relationship between Maggie and Macklin remained a closely guarded secret.

“Where is Willis?” she asked calmly.

“In the yard,” Taylor replied. “He's got some Internal Affairs men with him.”

“That is most efficient,” Maggie commented dryly. She touched Macklin's arm, feeling the rigid muscles beneath the cotton t-shirt. “Come on, Mack. Best see what's happened.”

Macklin moved aside to let her past, his lips pursed tightly in anger. They followed Taylor through the corridor to the central hall. The instructors' quarters lay in one arm of the building; the central hall provided the main exercise area, with various doors leading to other, more specific gym areas, the interior shooting range, the exterior rifle ranges, and exercise yard complete with assault course and other buildings for sniper training or siege tactics. The agents in training occupied a different outbuilding, a converted barn with small, cell-like rooms for single occupants, or bunkers turned into dormitories. They never had more than ten agents at one time, but the type of training would dictate whether they used dormitory facilities, or solitary confinements.

Maggie shivered in the cold night air as they entered the yard. In front of them to their left, they saw the discreet black van that doubled as a special services' ambulance. Willis stood beside his black Jaguar, wearing a long black woollen coat. His breath gusted like smoke in the chill air as he blew on his gloved hands. He turned to them with a cold, predatory smile.

“Brian. Sad business.”

“I wouldn't know, Willis, I've only just been told,” Macklin growled.

Willis gave Maggie a calculating look up and down, clearly questioning the reason for her being here. She ignored him, as she always ignored his barely concealed dislike of her. She had never worked out the reason for it, but then, she didn't care enough to give the matter any serious consideration.

Willis' gaze slid off her as he looked behind them to where Towser approached. “Ah, Towser,” he said, his voice only a shade warmer. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“What's going on?” Macklin demanded.

Willis smiled his shark-like smile. “Well, I was rather hoping you would tell me that,” he purred.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin did not slam the door as they entered their Kensington home, but Maggie knew anyone else having the same anger bubbling inside them would have. They would also have raged and argued as Willis prevaricated and avoided any direct answers, or any direct accusations. But Brian Macklin was not like most people.

She made them a drink, taking comfort in the routine of tea-making, before walking through to the lounge. Macklin stood staring out of the patio doors, the garden beyond dark and unreal in the grey light of dawn. His arms were folded across his broad chest, each muscle in his body tense. She saw the nerve twitch in his tightly clenched jaw, his steel-blue eyes flashing anger.

“Mack,” she said gently, holding out the mug of tea for him. He turned to her, the fury in his eyes disappearing at the sight of her.

“Thanks,” he reached for the tea, but did not drink it. He stared into the depths of the mug as though searching for answers.

“It's just a formality,” she said quietly.

“We don't even know how he died,” he said. His voice was low but the clipped, precise tones were razor sharp with anger. He looked up from the mug to meet her worried gaze. “And they won't tell us a damned thing, so how are we supposed to defend ourselves?”

“It has to be natural causes,” she said, trying to reassure him. “He was fine on the rifle range last thing, and nothing happened on the assault course. There's been no hand-to-hand today. We haven't laid a finger on him for at least 24 hours.”

He put the mug down untouched and turned back to stare out onto the garden. “That's just the point, isn't it?” he said quietly. “Whether it was something we should have noticed in the assessments. Whether something we did triggered it.”

“Either way, it's not premeditated,” she said. “Reynolds was nothing to us but another body in for training. Why would we kill him?”

“Dammit, Maggie!” Macklin snarled, raising his hand as though about to punch through the glass. He froze, his fist raised, his face contorted with anger. He relaxed suddenly, his hand dropping to his side as he regained control of himself. “It's not the point,” he said with false calmness. “Either we're inept, or we're sadists.”

“Or it's murder, and there's seven other agents they should be investigating,” she insisted.

Macklin sighed, leaning forward until his forehead rested against the glass. “I don't know, Maggie. I just don't know.”

She reached out to stroke his back reassuringly. “Mack, you're not a sadist. And you're not incompetent,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Willis is just grasping at straws.” She slid her arms around him, resting her head against his broad back. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“It won't be a public inquest.” He sighed, resting his hands against the cold glass. “It'll be behind closed doors. Normal rules of evidence won't apply. And our whole records will be scrutinised, Maggie. All of them. Have you thought about that? About what that means?”

She closed her eyes, tightening her hold around him. “I haven't, no,” she admitted. She didn't want to admit that the thought had occurred to her, and that she had ignored it, not wanting to think about the ramifications.

“Then think about it!” He pulled away from her sharply, turning around to face her angrily. “Everything we are, Maggie. Everything we've been. Right now, it's all hidden away where Willis doesn't even know where to look for it, but he'll get it. And then what will happen?”

The sudden ringing of the doorbell startled them both. Maggie eyed the door suspiciously as Macklin hung his head in resignation.

“Answer it before they kick it in,” he sighed.

Maggie reached for the intercom, surprised to see her hand shaking. “Who is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded remarkably normal to her ears.

“Doyle. Wondered if I could borrow a tea bag?”

She looked across to Macklin with a frown, meeting his confused gaze. “As long as you bring it straight back,” she replied, pressing the release button. She shrugged, equally bemused by Doyle's sudden appearance.

Doyle entered the lounge, keen gaze taking in the tension and anger in the air. He held a finger to his lips, pointed around the room with a circular motion of his hand, and tapped his ears. Macklin's expression darkened with fury as he realised the meaning. The house had been bugged.

“Cowley needs to see you both, before you go off on holiday,” Doyle said. “Thought I'd drop by and take you along. You packed?”

Macklin was tight-lipped, but his voice remained calm. “We don't need much, only a weekend.”

He met Maggie's glance with a subtle shake of his head. She frowned. “I was just going to throw a few things into a bag,” she said, trying to play catch-up with the hidden messages passing between the two men.

“Come on, then,” Macklin said, striding past her quickly. She followed him, still wearing the same look of confusion. She glanced at Doyle, who just shrugged and indicated with a jerk of his head for her to follow Macklin.

Macklin took the stairs two at a time. Maggie had to sprint up the stairs to catch up with him. In the bedroom, he reached out two holdalls, passing one to her before starting to take essentials from his own drawers and packing them methodically. He did not look at her once the whole time.

Maggie packed some essentials into her own bag, preoccupied with the sudden rush of events. She looked around, checking to see if there was anything else she should pack, when the blued Beretta and two spare clips landed on top of the clothes in the bag. Macklin stood watching her, his own bag closed. She stared at him, searching his face for any sign or hint of what was happening.

“You haven't -” she began.

He cut her off with a quick hand gesture. “I won't need it,” he said firmly.

“Brian.” She wanted some kind of reassurance, but she didn't know what. Something had been decided, or something was going to happen, and it didn't appear that she had any control over it. And neither did he.

He turned away from her before she could formulate her question, picking up his bag smoothly and making for the door. He waited expectantly as she zipped up her own bag, the Beretta and ammunition hidden away inside, before walking towards him. She hesitated, wanting to reach out to seek the comfort of physical contact, but something in his demeanour stopped her. Macklin the cold, smooth professional was unnerving even for her. She looked away from him and made as if to leave the room.

“Maggie -”

Her name sounded rough on his lips, as though torn from him without his consent. His bag hit the floor loudly as he dropped it to reach for her. Her bag tumbled from her grasp as he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against him with almost painful intensity. His mouth found hers in a hard, desperate kiss that seemed to pull all the air from her lungs, leaving her shaking in the aftermath. After a brief split second of surprise, she clutched at him, sensing the pain and desolation in him.

It felt like he was kissing her goodbye.

His arms tightened around her even more, beginning to hurt her, but she wouldn't protest. Anything to keep him in her arms. But as suddenly as it happened, he released her, leaving her swaying and off balance as he turned away and strode out of the room. She caught her breath before following after him, still dazed by everything that was happening. Events were running away from her, and she couldn't seem to catch up with them.

Macklin was already waiting with Doyle at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as she was halfway down, they were making for the front door. Irritation flared in her that she should be expected to just tag along without explanation or question. She opened her mouth to snap a retort as Macklin turned to her, but the empty look in his blue eyes silenced her. Maggie stared at him, unable to hide her horror. She had never seen those proud shoulder slump in defeat before, never seen such a look of despair in his eyes. Whatever was happening, not even Macklin could control it or predict it. He was being dragged along as much as she was.

Without a word, she followed them out of the house and into Doyle's car.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The journey was conducted in the same unnatural silence. From the convoluted route Doyle took, it was clear he was avoiding any possible tails. The thought caused greater depression. Macklin stared out of the windscreen, apparently oblivious but senses aware to any possible familiarity that would indicate someone following them. Doyle's gaze flickered from mirror to the road rapidly, also employing his honed instincts to find any possible pursuit.

“Where are we going?” Maggie asked at last. Doyle's gaze met hers in the rear view mirror.

“Gimme a break, Maggie, I was asleep until half an hour ago,” Doyle grumbled with ill-concealed bad humour. “All I know is Cowley wants you two somewhere where Willis' lot don't know about it.”

“He's heard about Reynolds' death?” Macklin asked sharply.

Doyle's glance flickered to the man in the passenger seat. “He's heard about Reynolds' murder,” he replied darkly.

Maggie leaned forward quickly between the two front seats as Macklin gave a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand over his forehead distractedly.

“Murder?” she repeated.

“Look, don't give me the third degree. Wait 'til we get to Cowley,” Doyle replied.

Reluctantly, Maggie sat back in the seat and waited impatiently.

The white RS2000 bounced down the dirt track, Doyle driving carefully to avoid the worst of the pot holes. Macklin hung on to the strap grimly, wondering what Cowley had planned with this clandestine meeting in so remote a location.

Maggie sat in the back holding on as the stiff suspension jerked painfully over the bumps. She was out of her depth in a world of espionage and triple think; a world she had always managed to side step before, considering herself no more than a peripheral player rather than a link in any chain. She did not trust anyone, and now she was expected to trust both MI6 and CI5 not only with her own life and liberty, but Macklin's as well. It was more than she could tolerate.

Doyle drove past a red brick farmhouse into a nearby barn, and killed the engine as soon as the car was under cover. Bodie's silver Capri was already parked inside, a black Vauxhall Astra GTE next to it.

Macklin got out of the car, his nerves alive and wary at the unknown location. Doyle moved the driver's seat aside to let Maggie out.

“Brian.” Cowley stepped out of the shadows.

Macklin turned sharply, then whirled around as Bodie appeared from behind Doyle. He assessed the lay-out in a split second, tense when he realised how close both men stood to Maggie.

“Want to tell me what's going on, George?” Macklin asked, deceptively calm.

Another man stepped out of the shadows behind Cowley. A tall, strikingly handsome, black-haired man, with piercing blue eyes that always reminded Macklin of Magpie. He heard Maggie's sharp intake of breath, and knew why Bodie and Doyle had stationed themselves so close to her.

Luke Peterson had the grace to look uncomfortable when faced with his half-sister.

“You might want to explain what he's doing here as well,” Macklin added dryly.

“I'm going to ask you both once, and once only,” Cowley said, his voice firm and cold. The grey eyes were hard as he looked from Maggie to Macklin. “Did either of you murder Greg Reynolds?”

Macklin met Cowley's gaze without a flinch. “No,” he replied.

Cowley stared at Macklin before nodding, as though satisfied by whatever he saw in the handsome face. “Maggie?”

Maggie's eyes narrowed as several sarcastic replies flitted through her mind. She took a breath, hesitating over a particularly sharp reply, before she sighed. “No,” she said at last.

Cowley allowed a tight-lipped smile. “Is that good enough for you, Peterson?” he asked, not looking at the man.

Luke pursed his lips, looking down at his feet as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his black suit trousers. He did not reply.

“Peterson here tells me Willis is very interested in you two. And Towser. Very interested indeed.” Cowley's voice was smooth as silk.

“Stop messing about, George, and just tell us,” Maggie snapped, tired of the games and secrets.

Macklin met Cowley's eyes and smiled. “You see, despite being a rather complex person, Maggie likes things very simple,” he explained, his dry voice heavy with irony. “Maybe it's best if we cut through all the smoke and mirrors.”

“Willis wants to keep his doorstep clean,” Cowley began. “He seems convinced Reynolds' murder is something to do with you or your team. That's because it keeps attention away from his men, of course.”

“Does he know who killed Reynolds?” Maggie asked.

“Not a clue,” Cowley replied. “Not only that, but we don't even know how he died.”

Maggie made her way around the car, Bodie and Doyle breaking ranks to move closer, standing between the two groups. Maggie leaned against the car beside Macklin, her arms folded across her chest.

“If you don't know how he died, how do you know it was murder?” she asked with a frown.

“Because he was found stabbed through the heart, with no murder weapon in sight.” Luke Peterson raised his head and met his half-sister's gaze. “Two agents say they heard something, went to investigate and when Reynolds didn't answer his door, they kicked it in. Found him stabbed through the heart.”

“And you've ruled out suicide?” Maggie asked calmly.

Luke gave a humourless smile. “How can someone stab themselves through the heart and then dispose of the weapon?” he asked.

“Icicle,” she replied without hesitation. Four pairs of eyes stared at her incredulously, while Macklin hid his smile. “What?” she asked, defensively. “You asked. Stab yourself with an icicle, and the icicle melts. Doesn't leave a murder weapon.”

“Comments like that aren't going to convince anyone of your innocence,” Bodie remarked dryly.

“I didn't say that's how it was done. Only that's how it could be done,” she replied.

“Why did they kick the door in?” Macklin asked, ignoring the other information and concentrating on the pertinent points.

“Locked. From the inside,” Peterson replied. He shrugged. “It's a locked room murder. No murder weapon, no suspect seen, and the victim found dead inside a room locked from the inside with no other means of entry. It's impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” Maggie insisted.

“Again – not the sort of thing you should be saying near Willis,” Doyle pointed out firmly.

“What's all this about, George?” Macklin asked.

Cowley sighed. “Willis wants to take all three of you into custody,” he explained wearily. “Peterson managed to persuade them that storming your homes could have tragic consequences, given your levels of training and expertise. Then he called me. Strictly without Willis' knowledge.”

Maggie's gaze hardened as she stared into the dark blue eyes of her half-brother, eyes so like her own. “And why's that?” she asked, her lip curling into a snarl.

“I want to know who killed Reynolds,” Luke answered sharply. “I'm not interested in finding a scape-goat. I want the killer.”

“And what does Willis want?” Macklin asked.

Luke looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “He wants it to be someone else's problem, not Six's,” he admitted.

“We can't have Magpie in custody,” Cowley interrupted firmly. “Her background won't stand up to in-depth scrutiny, and she'd be the perfect scape-goat if Willis gets one whiff of her identity.”

“We need time to investigate,” Luke added. “So we need to give Willis at least some of what he wants, to keep him busy while we find out what really happened.”

Macklin nodded, and Maggie felt a flash of panic at the resigned slump of his broad shoulders. “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

Cowley looked regretful, the grey eyes sharp. “You and Towser hand yourself in to Willis. Maggie will have to go into hiding, while my men investigate the murder. Peterson will continue to feedback Willis' moves to me, and delay the investigation as much as he can.”

Maggie straightened at Cowley's first words, her arms falling to her sides as she stepped forward, immediately defensive. “No way!” she said vehemently.

“Maggie -” Macklin's voice was calm after her outburst, but she didn't appear to hear him.

“Willis won't let the investigation drag on. You know how he works,” she railed, ignoring Macklin in her anger and panic. “People have a nasty habit of dying in his custody.”

“You don't have to tell us,” Bodie said darkly.

“Maggie -” Macklin's voice was firmer, cutting through her tirade.

She turned to him with desperation in her eyes. “You can't do this, Mack,” she pleaded.

He reached out and took her hand gently. “George, will you give us a minute?” he asked quietly.

Maggie did not take her eyes off Macklin, only peripherally aware of Cowley ushering Luke and his men away from them.

“You can't do this,” she whispered hoarsely.

He pulled her towards him, reaching out with his other hand to cup her face gently. “I have to,” he said softly. “I guessed this would happen.” His thumb stroked across her cheek. “Maggie, I can't do this if you're there with me. Cowley is right – Willis will rip your cover story apart, and then he won't need to look anywhere else for a killer. You're the Magpie – locked room murders were your speciality.”

“You can't expect me to just run away, go into hiding, and let you take the flak!” she hissed desperately.

Macklin stared down at her, his blue eyes earnest. “Yes, I can,” he said firmly. “Exactly that. How do you think I will feel if I'm in one cell, and I know Willis is questioning you next door? Not knowing what he's saying or doing to you?”

“He can't arrest you without evidence.”

“He won't need it. Suspicion is enough for him. You know how Six work,” he insisted, his calm, steady manner in contrast to her rising panic. “We distract them with this, and let Cowley do his job.”

“Cowley?” she hissed. “He's not above stringing anyone out to dry if it saves CI5 or suits his purpose!”

“Maggie.” Macklin's hands gripped her arms, trying to calm her. “There is nothing else we can do.”

“Yes, there is,” she insisted. “You could -”

He reached out and stopped her mouth with a finger over her lips. “Shhh,” he said. He gave her a warning look. “Don't say it, Maggie,” he said softly.

She hesitated, halting over her words. “I have to. I won't get the chance again.”

He sighed. “I can't go into hiding with you,” he said firmly. “I can't go on the run.”

She wrenched herself free of his grasp, a snarl on her face as she fought the urge to hit him. She immediately regretted her action, torn between the desire to hold him and the desire to shake some sense into him.

“Don't ask me,” he said, the pleading note in his voice more than she could stand. “Don't ask me that, Maggie.”

The plaintive despair in him broke her will. Brian Macklin could not run, did not have it in him to hide. While she had sold her honour and abilities to the highest bidder, he had always maintained his integrity. Without it, he wouldn't be who he was. Without it, he wouldn't able to love someone as flawed as she was. He wouldn't be the man who loved her.

She sighed, the breath breaking in a half-sob as she reached for his hand. She wanted to beg him, to plead – whatever it took to make him do what she wanted. And if she did those things, she knew he would give in. He loved her enough to sacrifice everything. And for that very reason, she couldn't ask him. Her every instinct cried out to run – damn Willis, damn Cowley, damn everything. But Macklin wouldn't be himself without his reputation - his untarnished, untouchable, irreproachable good name.

He looked down at her, knowing the thoughts going through her mind, and knowing that – with one word – he would leave everything and run with her if that was what she wanted. Even knowing that he ran the risk of growing to resent the life of a fugitive, running from a crime he did not commit. One word, and he would leave it all. For her.

He reached out to trail his fingertips gently over her face, as though memorising her features with his touch. “Maggie,” he whispered.

“It's alright,” she said, her voice stronger than she felt. She swallowed, and tried to smile. “Really, Mack. It's alright.” She took his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm. “I won't ask,” she promised. He had made her guardian of his honour, and she would protect it whatever the cost.

He smiled and she saw the relief in his eyes. “It has to be this way,” he explained. “I can cope with anything Willis can throw at me, but not if I know he's got you.”

“How long?” She laced her fingers through his, staring at the long, strong fingers and the way her hand was dwarfed by his larger one.

He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “It shouldn't take long. The quicker the investigation, the fresher the evidence. And you know locked room murders, Maggie. You can work it out.”

She shook her head. “I can't,” she said. “I'm no detective.”

He smiled and raised her hand to his lips. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I know you'll do everything you can. You won't let Cowley forget me.”

Her eyes flashed, unshed tears glistening in the growing daylight. “No way,” she vowed. “I won't let them hang you out to dry.”

“Good,” he said. He kissed her hand again. “I love you, Maggie. Don't forget that. And don't let anyone tell you different.”

She gave a bleak laugh. “Not likely,” she replied, sniffing away her tears. She wouldn't let him see her cry. She wouldn't let any of them see her tears.

“Come on, then,” he said gently, pulling her with him as he walked towards Cowley.

He felt her straighten as she approached the other men, and knew the price of her façade.

“What's going to happen to Magpie?” Macklin demanded as Cowley turned to acknowledge them.

Cowley looked uncomfortable. “There's only one hiding place,” he began. “Somewhere Willis or the rest of Six will never consider.”

“Me,” Peterson said curtly, anticipating the explosion, and obviously keen to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. “Magpie stays with me until the whole sorry mess is sorted out.”

Macklin felt Maggie's grip tighten on his hand, and heard the outraged explosion of air from Doyle at the same time.

“You can't be serious!” Doyle raged.

“Oh but I am, 4-5,” Cowley snapped. “Willis regards Peterson highly. He'll never suspect any connection between him and Magpie. It's the safest place.”

“You haven't got a clue what you're asking of me,” Maggie breathed, her voice a deadly whisper.

Cowley's grey eyes regarded her coolly. “Any better suggestions?” he snapped. “And with him working on the investigation himself, where else will you be better placed to get first hand information?”

Cowley watched as she hesitated, torn between her hatred for the son of the man who ordered her father's death, and the very man who had handed her over for torture; and her need to be as close to Macklin as possible in these impossible circumstances. As he knew it would, her need for Macklin outweighed other considerations.

“You can't expect me to trust you,” she snapped at her half-brother.

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned by her belligerence. “That works both ways,” he replied. “Needs must.”

“Brian, you go with Doyle. Bodie and I will follow along,” Cowley said, ignoring the atmosphere between the half-siblings. Cowley allowed himself a wry smile. “I'm not sure how well Willis will take my stepping into the investigation, but it will be interesting to find out.”

Macklin spared one final look at Maggie, giving her a reassuring smile before turning back to Doyle. “Let's get it over with, before Willis finds out where we are.”

Doyle nodded, looking unhappy as he glanced at Luke and Maggie, before walking to his car. Macklin followed without a backward glance.

Maggie stood unmoving as Macklin left her side, her face an emotionless mask. Cowley approached her slowly. “I won't abandon him, Maggie,” he said softly, looking into her dark blue eyes earnestly. “I give you my word. I won't abandon either of you. Willis won't be able to breathe without me hearing about it. I swear.”

She nodded, unable to speak, unwilling to trust her voice. Already, she felt a stabbing pain inside at the growing distance between her and Macklin.

“Bodie,” Cowley gestured for Bodie to lead the way to his car. Bodie gave her a smile and a wink as he passed, touching his hand to hers in a quick gesture of reassurance.

“We'll find them, Maggie,” he promised her.

She heard the cars doors open and slam shut behind her, followed by the throaty roar as the engines started. The noise died away in the distance.

“And then there were two.”

She looked up at Luke's quiet comment, meeting his gaze steadily. “Not the ideal circumstances for a family reunion,” she snarled.

Luke sighed. “Stop trying for snappy one liners,” he said with exasperation. “It takes more than an accident of blood to make a family.”

“You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?” she snapped.

He brushed past her and walked to the Astra. “Just get in,” he said, sounding tired. He looked up when she didn't move. “It's not ideal for either of us,” he snarled. “Let's just get it over with and try not to kill each other.”

She walked to the car, picking up her bag on the way. “Wouldn't that make a refreshing change,” she said as she opened the passenger door.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Century House, the large red and grey brick tower block in Westminster Bridge Road, hid the finer workings of MI6, a Government agency that remained not officially recognised or acknowledged. Macklin and Doyle approached the drab rear entrance to the building just as Murphy arrived with Towser. The two men greeted each other with resigned smiles.

“Justin.”

“Brian,” Towser nodded. “Where's Maggie?”

“We don't know,” Macklin replied. “She's safe.”

Towser nodded his understanding. “Good.” He looked behind Macklin, noting the approach of Cowley and Bodie. “Brought the big guns, I see.”

Macklin glanced behind him and smiled. “I think we'll need all the help we can get,” he agreed ruefully.

“Gentlemen,” Cowley said as he approached. He indicated the entrance to the drab, dull offices. “Shall we?”

 

Bodie greatly enjoyed the expression on the MI6's man's face when the doors banged open and he found himself facing the two men who haunted every agent's nightmares. Macklin and Towser enjoyed a terrifying – and deserved – reputation.

“Where's Willis?” Cowley demanded.

“I'll just fetch him,” the man stammered, his eyes huge in a pale face.

“Something tells me you scared the hell out of him some time recently,” Doyle muttered from behind Macklin.

“No more than you,” Macklin replied dryly.

“Touché,” Doyle acknowledged with a grin.

Macklin bristled with tension, uneasy in these surroundings and the whole arrangement. Towser eyed the small room with subtle distaste. All attention fixed on Willis as he swept into the room his oily smile hiding a look of confusion.

“My, it's positively a contingent,” he said with gentle mockery. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Macklin met his shark-like gaze steadily. “What's this about Reynolds being murdered, Willis?” he demanded.

Willis' eyes widened innocently. “I never said he was murdered, Brian,” he replied smoothly.

“No,” Cowley snapped, stepping from behind Macklin. Bodie stifled a smirk at the way the slick smile suddenly disappeared from Willis' face at the sight of Cowley. “You didn't say a great deal, did you, Willis?”

Willis recovered himself. “I'm not sure I know what you're implying, George,” he said.

“Don't you?” Cowley replied, a dangerous glint in his grey eyes. “Be very careful, Willis. Because I'm watching you.”

Willis smiled, blinking rapidly to hide his flash of anger. “I can assure you, George, that we are following up all leads,” he said.

Macklin drew himself up. “Then Towser and I are here to answer any questions you may have,” he said. “But I warn you, Willis – if you try to stitch us up, I'll drag you through every office in Whitehall.”

“Stitch you up?” Willis' composure flickered for an instant. “I can assure you, Brian, all we wish to do is find out what happened.” He looked around the small CI5 group quickly. “I see Maggie Draven isn't with you?” he enquired archly. He gave a cold smile. “May I ask where she is? We may have need to question her as well.”

“She's left the country,” Cowley replied smoothly. “Family matters – couldn't be avoided.”

Willis frowned, converting his displeasure into a look of false concern. “I do hope it's nothing serious,” he said. “Nothing that will keep her long,” he added meaningfully. “After all, I'm curious about someone who rejoices in the nickname 'Magpie'.”

“And why would that be?” Doyle asked archly.

Willis shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “It's an unusual nickname,” he lied. “Familiar.”

Cowley pursed his lips. “You're barking up the wrong tree, Willis,” he growled. “But if you want to waste your time and resources on nonsense, that's your problem.”

Willis expression hardened. “Oh I don't think it would be wasted,” he purred. “Do you?” He stood aside and gestured expansively with one arm. “Gentlemen, shall we find some accommodation for you while we take your statements?”

Macklin gave Cowley one last warning look before striding forward and through the door Willis indicated, followed by Towser. Willis turned to follow them out, when Cowley's voice called him back. He turned to Cowley, one eyebrow arched in enquiry.

Cowley stepped forward carefully, his sharp eyes staring straight at Willis. “Be very careful,” he warned softly. “I want full access to all interviews and information.”

“This does not concern, CI5, George,” Willis began.

“Oh but it will do,” Cowley replied smoothly. “One telephone call, Willis, and CI5 will be very concerned. One slightest hint that you are doing anything to fabricate evidence. One suggestion that either of those two men are in any danger, or mistreated in any way. Then, Willis – then, CI5 will be very concerned indeed.”

Cowley's soft threat hung in the air as he stared at Willis, making sure his meaning was clear. “So CI5 will be kept informed, Willis. Because I guarantee the Ministers will require an independent enquiry. And that will be us.”

Willis hesitated, considering Cowley's words and the possible outcome, before conceding the issue with a tight smile. “But of course, George. We have nothing to hide,” he replied.

“See that you don't.”

“But have you considered,” Willis continued, halting Cowley as he began to turn away. “What if Macklin, or Towser – or Draven – are guilty of this murder? What will you do then?”

Cowley turned back, his gaze candid and open. “If any of them are guilty, I'll see they answer for it, Willis. You can rest assured on that score.”

“Then we are in agreement.

Cowley shook his head. “Oh no. I doubt that very much,” he said, turning away. Murphy held the door as Cowley left. Bodie and Doyle gave one final hard look at Willis and his men, before turning to follow them back to the cars.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Bodie and Doyle followed Cowley through the corridors of CI5. As Cowley entered Betty's room outside his office, the secretary greeted him with a buff coloured file and a smile. Cowley took the file with a polite nod of thanks.

“Excellent. Good work. Thank you, Betty.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged bemused looks before shrugging and following Cowley as he strode into his office.

“Everything we know so far about Reynolds,” Cowley said as he took his seat at his desk. The two men took their positions in front of him, Bodie at smart parade ground rest, while Doyle leaned casually, his hands resting on the back of a chair.

“What have we got?” Bodie asked.

Cowley perched his glasses half-way down his nose and examined the paperwork meticulously. “28 years of age, excellent health. No known psychological disorders. They estimate time of death an hour or so before Morris and Hughes entered his room. He was sleeping alone in a two bed room. No visible means of entry. Two small skylights.”

“And the windows?” Doyle asked.

“Both closed, and too small for anyone to enter.” Cowley examined the pictures carefully, a prim look on his face. “At least, too small for men the size of Macklin and Towser.”

“But not Maggie,” Bodie added.

Cowley's grey eyes looked over this glasses and eyed them both carefully. “No, not Maggie,” he agreed quietly.

“What was outside the room?” Doyle asked.

Cowley looked down at the pictures in the folder. “The assault course on one side, rifle range the other.” He spread the remaining papers out on his desk. “You'll have to ask Maggie for a detailed summary of both her and Macklin's whereabouts at the time.” He picked up one of the pictures, a slight frown on his face. “There's something wrong with this,” he said slowly, examining the picture closely.

“Sir?” Doyle asked.

Cowley sighed and shook his head. He slid the photograph across the desk to them. It showed Reynolds, lying on his back, his eyes open and glassy in death. A dark stain covered the area of his heart. A silver flask could be seen clutched in the dead man's hand. “I can't put my finger on it,” Cowley said, a trace of annoyance in his voice. “But there's something wrong with that.” He held out his hand for Bodie to return the picture to him, continuing to stare at it once he had it back in his grasp.

“What do we know about Reynolds?” Bodie asked.

“Not a lot. Peterson is working on pulling his personnel file,” Cowley replied.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a glance. “About Peterson, sir,” Doyle ventured cautiously.

Cowley removed his glasses, fixing Doyle with a sharp glare. “What about him?”

“Well, what's the deal?” Doyle continued. “Three years ago, he was with MI5, and tried to murder Magpie. He kidnapped Bodie.”

“Ran me over,” Bodie muttered, peeved at the memory.

“That as well,” Doyle allowed with a trace of annoyance. “And you not only let Maggie stay with him, but we're working with him on this as well. It just doesn't make sense.”

“I'm not in the habit of explaining myself to you or anyone, Doyle,” Cowley snapped.

“No, sir,” Doyle replied with a trace of belligerence.

Cowley pursed his lips, looking over his agents with a disapproving glare. “However, in this instance, I expect a little explanation will speed things up,” he allowed magnanimously. He replaced his glasses and sighed, turning his attention back to the papers in his hand. “Peterson transferred to Six at my suggestion. I have been watching his career with interest, and he knows it. I made him, gentlemen, and I can break him just as easily. That means it's in his best interest to keep me informed about Willis.”

“You sent him to infiltrate Six and feed back to you,” Bodie said with more than a trace of respect in his voice.

Cowley eyed him over the top of his glasses. “I considered he may prove an asset in the future, and present circumstances bear out that prediction,” he said. “As for Maggie, she's in the one place Willis will not think of looking.”

“And if she decides on pay-back for what he did to her?” Doyle asked. “Or he wants revenge for the murder of his father and his mother?”

“Luke Peterson did not enjoy a happy childhood, despite having the dubious advantage of both parents,” Cowley replied calmly. “I appreciate that would not preclude thoughts of revenge for their deaths, but Peterson is a pragmatic individual. A trait he shares with his sister. He will – and does – accept that, however distasteful her course of action was, Maggie had reasons for what she did.”

“He knows what happened?” Doyle asked.

“He does,” Cowley replied. “I told him. Everything.” Cowley's craggy features showed a trace of how unpleasant that task had been for him. He had placed all the evidence before Luke, presenting him with every scrap of the story. He still remembered the shattered look on the young man's face as he discovered the depths of his parents' betrayal. Years of the man's life had been nothing but lies.

“Bet that was an eye-opener,” Doyle commented with deliberate callousness.

Cowley's eyes flashed. “It was,” he growled. He dismissed them with a glance. “Get Maggie's statement. In the meantime, we'll wait to see what Peterson brings us on Reynolds, and Willis.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie entered the apartment block alone, her black hair disguised by a short blonde wig Luke had thrust into her hands as she entered his car. A beige trenchcoat covered her, making her unrecognisable. She followed the directions Luke had given her half an hour earlier, before he had made his own way to his apartment.

Her heart hammered in her chest as the lift took her to the first floor of the building. She couldn't believe she was trusting Luke Peterson. The idea of staying with him was ridiculous, and yet the logic of it was infallible. Obviously there was nothing linking the two of them, but even if there were, no-one would believe either one would willingly spend time with the other. She toyed with the idea of running, finding her own sanctuary and waiting out the investigation. But one thing stopped her – Macklin. Peterson was involved in the investigation. She didn't know what he would tell her, didn't know whether it would be the truth. And the thought of asking him for help galled her. But she would do it. For Macklin, for the outside chance that – by some miracle – her half-brother was genuine.

She entered the apartment cautiously, her senses alive for any sign of attack. The door opened straight into a large, airy room, sparsely decorated in clean, spartan lines. Luke stood in the middle of the room, his arms folded across his chest and a dark look on his handsome face.

“I'll say this once and once only,” he growled. “I'm not going to kill you. So stop scurrying around like you expect me to stick a knife in your back.”

She closed the door behind her, approaching him with greater confidence. “You can hardly blame me,” she said.

He glowered. “Are you going to continue to take every opportunity to have a dig at me?” he asked.

She dropped her bag to the floor and removed the blonde wig, throwing it to him. He caught it smoothly, throwing it to the white leather sofa without pausing. She took off the over-sized trenchcoat and threw it across the nearest chair.

She regarded him carefully, her head canted to one side as she continued to consider his question.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I think I might.” She crossed her arms, her stance matching his perfectly.

“It's becoming tiresome,” he snapped.

“Not to me, it's not,” she replied.

His lip curled angrily. “Are you always so obnoxious?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “I'm not sure. I don't normally spend time with people who've kidnapped, tortured and threatened to kill me.”

He threw his arms up in the air, turning away from her in his fury. “There you go again!”

“Oh come on, Luke,” she snapped. “You can't honestly say you expect anything else?”

He turned back to her, pushing one hand through his black hair, leaving it ruffled and untidy. He sighed. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. He undid his jacket, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “Can you at least get it out of your system quickly?” he said, with painful resignation.

She sighed. “You want to start again?” she asked.

“Can we?”

She regarded him carefully. “I don't think so,” she said at last, genuine regret in her voice. “There's too much between us, don't you think?”

He removed his jacket, placing it neatly across the back of a metal dining chair. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Probably,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Whose idea was it for me to stay with you?” she asked.

He examined the jacket carefully, dusting imaginary specks from the shoulders, using it as an excuse not to look at her. “Cowley's, I suppose,” he replied at last. “And mine. But he suggested it.” He put his hands back in his pockets, still unable to look at her. “CI5 have checked over the flat. There's no bugs.”

“MI6 bug you?” she asked.

His dark blue eyes met hers briefly. “All service agents are,” he replied. “Surely you know that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I know I'm not,” she said archly. “I'm not having Cowley listen to my private life.”

A smile flickered briefly across his face. “Well, you're not exactly Service, are you?”

“No,” she replied. “I'm not.” She looked around the apartment in polite enquiry, seeing the large white bookcase that covered the wall by the fireplace. She walked over to examine the books thoughtfully.

“How long have you been with Macklin?” he asked suddenly.

She looked up sharply, and he saw a flash of hollow emptiness in her violet eyes. “Just over a year,” she replied quickly.

“And why the big secret about it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No secret. Just no-one else's business,” she said in a soft, menacing whisper.

“And no wedding ring?”

“Don't be so conventional,” she snapped. “Besides, he can't marry a dead woman, can he?”

He looked away, realising he had trespassed onto dangerous ground, something precious and intensely private. “I'll show you your room,” he said, desperate to change the subject. “Then I've got to get back to work.”

She nodded, turning away from the books and stooping to pick up her bag. She followed him out of the room to a small corridor. A brief tour showed her a starkly utilitarian and spotless bathroom, a scrupulously clean kitchen in gleaming stainless steel, and a small spare bedroom. He indicated the door to his own room more out of courtesy than necessity, before excusing himself to fetch clean linen. He explained he had not had time to prepare the room, having had to move quickly that morning.

“When do you start work?” she asked, more for something to say than genuine curiosity.

He re-entered the room carrying clean linen, placing the small pile on the double bed and retreating back to the door. “I'm at work now,” he explained. “Willis called me just after the murder.”

She looked at him sharply. “What for?” she asked.

He met her gaze, the dark blue eyes candid and guileless. “Willis had me trying to get access to yours, Macklin's and Towser's personnel files all night,” he admitted freely. “As soon as I could, I called Cowley, pulled what information I could about Reynolds' autopsy, then arranged to meet Cowley.

She frowned. “Why?” she asked softly, confusion in the violet eyes.

He shrugged, his hands buried in his trouser pockets making his shoulders slump like a naughty schoolboy. “I'll let you know as soon as I've worked it out,” he said. “Right now, I'd better get back to Century House.”

She followed him back to the lounge, watching from the doorway as he retrieved his coat and shrugged into it. “Any message for Macklin?” he asked lightly, his back to her.

Maggie folded her arms defensively across her chest before turning and leaving the room. He turned around just in time to see her disappear back along the corridor, and chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Probably not my most tactful comment,” he muttered to himself regretfully.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke approached Century House, his head bent low in thought. Despite his preoccupation, he hadn't lost the honed instincts of a secret service agent. He raised his head, meeting the hard gaze of Bodie without surprise.

Bodie flashed his CI5 ID without any recognition showing on his handsome face. “Bodie. CI5,” he said brusquely. Luke was aware of Doyle approaching him from behind even before Bodie's gaze flickered to his partner with a nod of introduction. “Doyle. Also CI5,” he added.

A smile pulled at the corner of Luke's mouth. “Shouldn't we have done all this inside?” he asked.

“Nah.” Doyle's lazy drawl sounded close behind him. “We're more informal at CI5.”

“Informal?” Luke allowed the interdepartmental ribbing to colour his reply. “No discipline?”

Bodie's pout matched the flash of laughter in his navy blue eyes. “Oh if it's discipline you want, there's a few girls I know who'd be happy to oblige.”

“What do you want?” Luke asked, disliking the feeling of being caught between their double-act.

“We're here to make sure you don't stitch up Macklin and Towser,” Doyle replied smoothly.

“Or Maggie,” Bodie added, a note of subtle threat entering his voice.

Luke turned, taking a step sideways to allow the two CI5 agents in his vision simultaneously. “I'm not interested in any stitch up,” he snapped. “And there's barely any information yet. If you want full disclosure, you can have it. But right now, there's nothing to disclose.”

“So, should we meet up with you later? When you've got something to disclose?” Doyle's green eyes were wide with a look of feigned innocence.

Luke's eyes narrowed cautiously. There was something going on, some undercurrent. They couldn't speak plainly, not here, but he knew there was something else he was being asked.

“Maybe at your place?” Bodie added.

Luke caught the suggestion. They needed to speak to Maggie. It made sense. He would have to ask her a few questions himself, even if he'd never be able to put it in the report.

He nodded. “Yeah, fine,” he agreed. He glanced at his watch. “Meet me here at 3 o'clock.”

Doyle and Bodie exchanged a look, comparing notes in a silent conversation. “Yeah,” Doyle said. “That'll work.”

Luke watched the two men saunter away without offering a farewell, before entering the building.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke strode through security, signing in and making for his office without any sign of the turbulent thoughts going through his head. The idea of Maggie staying with him had been perfectly logical, but the sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of spending any time with her had overshadowed all the other considerations of the case. Now he would have to face Willis, maintain a pretence in a building full of secret service agents trained in sensing any weaknesses, deal with a wealth of confusing emotions dealing with his half-sister, and investigate a murder.

It started before he had even taken his seat. No sooner had he hung his overcoat in the corner of the room than a quick knock preceded the entrance of a short, sandy haired man in his late twenties.

“Luke. Father wants you.”

Luke sighed heavily. “What is it now? I'm still trying to get these blasted personnel files. I'm getting nothing.”

The man smiled. “More important things. Macklin and Towser are in custody.”

Luke affected surprise. “Custody? What – arrested? Already?”

The man frowned. “No, not arrested. Well, not yet. They just handed themselves in about a hour ago.”

“And Draven?” Luke asked.

He shook his head. “No sign of her. They reckon she's done a runner. Not looking good.”

Luke ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “All right, Palmer. I'm on my way.”

Palmer closed the door behind him. Luke's open, easy expression froze as soon as the door clicked shut. He knew he was good. He just hoped he was better than Willis.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin and Towser had been separated as soon as they had entered the inner chambers of Century House. Macklin found himself in a pleasant enough room, little different to the rooms in the training facility. A table with three chairs, all bolted securely to the floor, a sturdy looking camp bed, also bolted down, and a clean if unpleasant looking toilet and wash basin in the corner of the room. He hadn't been searched, or had anything removed from him – yet. A courtesy he fully expected Willis to withdraw as soon as the man thought it expedient.

Macklin had already assessed the layout of the building, and despite the labyrinthine corridors, he had a fairly good idea of where in the building he had been placed. He placed his bag at the foot of the bed, before testing the mattress with a firm hand. Apparently satisfied, he stretched out on the neatly made bed, his hands behind his head, his feet crossed. The bed was barely big enough to accommodate his length. He stared up at the ceiling and prepared to wait.

Willis was manipulative and arrogant, but he wasn't a fool. And he wasn't the enemy. Just a man who preferred his world view to be more clear cut and simple, and was prepared to do whatever necessary to keep that image. All in the public interest, of course. Macklin knew the type well. He knew the men who would be questioning him, knew their weaknesses and strengths. In contrast, they knew nothing about him. This was a waiting game – who would break first. And Macklin knew it wouldn't be him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke gave Willis' door a light knock before entering. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he said, his face carefully schooled into impassivity.

Willis looked up from his desk, his sharp features pinched and drawn in a frown of concentration.

“Peterson – I thought you'd left.”

“Just went home to freshen up,” Luke lied easily. “Still no luck tracking down Macklin's personnel files or those of his employees.”

Willis snorted. “Employees is it? Did you know he's sleeping with the Draven woman?”

Luke's eyebrow rose in polite surprise. “Is he?”

“Yes,” Willis confirmed with a smug smile. “Taylor caught them in bed together.” The puritanical look of distaste on his face melted into a look of salacious glee. “Find out who else she's sleeping with,” he added with a sly smile.

“Doesn't mean it's anything to do with Reynolds,” Luke replied. “She could be screwing half the Secret Service, but if there's nothing linking her to Reynolds -”

“Then find it!” Willis snapped. “And while you're at it, find out why she's called Magpie.”

Luke allowed a look of disbelief to cross his face. “I can't see her being the same Magpie as the assassin,” he said coolly.

“I'm not ruling anything out,” Willis replied. “Did Palmer tell you Towser and Macklin are in the cells?”

“He did,” Luke confirmed. “What happened?”

“Turned themselves in,” Willis answered, not bothering to hide his amused surprise. “With Cowley and three of CI5's finest holding their hands.”

Luke ignored the jibe at the expense of Towser and Macklin; they were both hard men who didn't deserve Willis' sarcasm. “That explains why two CI5 men met me outside,” he said smoothly.

Willis shot him a sharp look, his keen eyes staring straight into him. Luke held his gaze, hoping the sudden surge of nerves didn't show on his face.

“How do CI5 men know you?” Willis asked.

Luke shrugged, affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. “I met a few of them when I was with Five. Been on training with some since then as well.”

“Which two were these?”

Luke blinked as though searching his memory. “Doyle. And Bodie,” he said after a brief hesitation.

“And what did they say?”

“Just that they wanted full disclosure,” Luke replied.

Willis stared at him, his hawk-like features hard and unreadable. Luke fought the temptation to lick his lips or swallow, despite the sudden dryness in his throat.

“Then we'll have to see they get what they deserve, won't we, Peterson?”

“Sir?”

Willis' predatory smile held no humour. “Liaise with them, by all means. But under no circumstances tell them what we know.” Luke nodded, conveying his understanding of the hidden meaning behind Willis' words. Willis' eyes narrowed and he leaned forward across his desk. “You see, Macklin, or Towser, or Draven – I don't care who, or all of them – will be found guilty of this murder. I won't have it laid at the feet of our men.”

“What if our men did it?” Luke asked, watching the sharp face curiously, wondering what kind of man put personal spite in front of justice, and feeling a sharp pang of guilt at the irony.

Willis' eyes widened. “We clean our own doorstep, Peterson,” he said firmly. “And no MI6 man murders another MI6 man.” A shark-like smile spread across his face. “Not without my express permission, at least,” he added silkily. He stood up smoothly, collecting papers together into a folder. “Now,” he said. “Shall we go and ask Macklin exactly who he's screwing?”

Luke held the door open as Willis swept out.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin did not move as the cell door swung open to admit Willis and Peterson. Willis' lips narrowed in disapproval.

“Macklin.”

Macklin pulled himself upright, muscles flexing and relaxing smoothly as he moved. He sat up, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. “Willis,” he replied easily, matching the tone.

The cold brown eyes appraised him. Macklin met the gaze unblinkingly.

Willis took one of the seats at the table and gestured to the seat opposite him with easy arrogance. “We have a few questions for you.”

Macklin's gaze flickered to Luke, standing at the head of the table. He would be between the two of them – an irony that was not lost on Macklin, as he stood, drawing himself up to his full height, and approached the table. Willis pretended an interest in the papers in his hand, ignoring the sheer physical presence of Macklin with difficulty.

Macklin took the seat opposite Willis, arms crossed easily across his broad chest. “So ask.”

“When was the last time you saw Reynolds?”

“The morning. We had eight agents, split into two groups of four. One group took the assault course while the other worked the ranges.”

Willis' eyes were like a sharks – cold, dead, predatory. “And you saw him where?”

“Assault course. Then he went on the rifle ranges.” Macklin's voice was clipped and precise, his answers calm and smooth.

A gleam flashed in Willis' dead eyes. “And who supervised the ranges?”

“Maggie Draven.” Macklin's tone did not alter, nothing changed in his expression. If a twinge of caution curled in his gut, there was no sign of it in his professional manner.

In contrast, Willis' lips twitched in the start of a smile of victory. “Ah yes – your... lover?”

“My partner.” Macklin did not flinch.

Willis nodded, a sly look on his face. “Partner,” he repeated, allowing an inflection of lasciviousness to the word. Macklin felt a curl of anger inside him but stamped down on it immediately. Willis was trying to needle him, and being obvious about it. And Macklin was far too professional to allow the first cheap jibe to raise his hackles.

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the smug expression. “My partner, in business and in private.”

“A convenient arrangement.”

“You may think that. It has no bearing on this investigation,” Macklin replied.

A flash of anger crossed Willis' face “I decide what is important,” he snapped.

Macklin gave a heavy sigh, leaning his crossed arms on the table in front of him. “I'm here of my own volition, Stephen,” he said smoothly. “I'm here to answer any questions relevant to the investigation into the murder of Greg Reynolds. But I'm not here for you to pick over my sex life like a cheap voyeur.”

Macklin hid his amusement at the anger he could sense in Willis. If it was a question of scoring points, he was already ahead.

“Then perhaps you could explain why your - partner - Maggie Draven, is known as Magpie?” Willis asked, his tone ice cold with fury.

Macklin's head quirked to one side in curious amusement. “Magpie? Because she's Maggie,” he replied, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. “And she likes shiny things,” he added with a smile.

“And are you familiar with an assassin known as the Magpie?” Willis demanded.

A wry smile crossed Macklin's face. “No-one is 'familiar' with the Magpie,” he replied. He frowned, as though a thought had just occurred to him. “You think Maggie is the Magpie?” he asked, allowing a note of amazement into his voice. He shook his head. “You don't know your target,” he replied. “Magpie is just a name, a pseudonym. There's probably half a dozen assassins used that name over the years. It's not always the same person.”

“So you believe the Magpie to have been a name appropriated by any number of assassins over the years?” Willis said, for clarification.

“It's the accepted understanding, yes,” Macklin replied.

“So Maggie Draven could have been the Magpie at some point?”

Macklin shook his head. “No.”

Willis' regained his predatory look. “Are you quite sure?”

Macklin's steel-blue gaze met his, all amusement stripped from his expression. “Maggie Draven is not the Magpie,” he lied. “You're clutching at non-existent straws.”

Willis smiled slowly. “We'll see.” He shuffled the papers in his hand, obviously drawing a line under that line of questioning, at least for the moment. “So Draven was the last to see Reynolds alive?”

Macklin gave a warning look. “No,” he said. “Whoever killed him was the last to see him alive. Reynolds spent the late afternoon and early evening, until approximately 7.30pm, on the rifle ranges. Along with three other agents, and Maggie Draven.”

“Which other agents?”

“Taylor, Jenkins and Saunders,” Luke replied immediately, deliberately misunderstanding who Willis had aimed the question at and smoothly interrupting the flow of the interrogation.

Willis shot him a sharp, disapproving look. “Yes, thank you, Peterson,” he said quickly. “I think Brian is capable of answering for himself.”

Luke affected a contrite look. “Sorry, sir.” The tactic had worked, breaking Willis' relentless tone of voice and allowing the attention to shift from Macklin, if only for a split second. Macklin recognised the trick, even if Willis didn't understand the deliberate intention.

Willis returned to his notes, but he had lost whatever psychological advantage he had once had. If he ever had one to start with. Macklin was not the typical suspect. Willis shifted tactic, trying once again to provoke a reaction.

“Why did you hide your relationship with Maggie Draven?”

“I didn't,” Macklin replied smoothly. “We simply didn't see it as anyone else's business.”

“So you weren't embarrassed by her? Ashamed?” Willis sound surprised, as though such things would be obvious considerations. Macklin did not allow the jibes to rankle.

“Not at all,” he said.

“And your wife? She is aware of this – liaison?”

Macklin wanted to smile. Willis seemed so sure this comment would surprise him, even anger him. “Why are you so interested in my private life, Willis?” he asked calmly.

“Are you and Draven exclusive?” Willis continued remorselessly.

“You're not my type,” Macklin replied calmly.

Willis expression tightened in anger, his lips pale lines in his sharp face. “Does she sleep with other men?”

“No.” Macklin's firm reply brooked no argument.

“At least, not that you know of?” Willis added slyly.

Macklin wanted to react. He could feel the flame of his anger beginning to burn, bright and hot, in his centre. Willis had sensed his weakness – Maggie – and was pursuing it relentlessly, obviously intent on making her either the murderer or the motive. It was cheap, tawdry, sordid – and so typical of Willis. For the sake of a neatly tied up investigation, he would not pursue the facts, but only fit the available facts into his own version of events, if it resulted in the answer he wanted.

To do that, he had to provoke Macklin into anger, to undermine him, and to undermine his relationship with Maggie. And Macklin would not allow that.

He gave a predatory smile. “Don't be more stupid than you have to be,” he replied calmly. “Reynolds was alive when Maggie left him. Taylor spoke to me at the door and said the reason they broke into Reynolds' room was because they heard something. Maggie was with me at that time.”

Willis nodded thoughtfully. “Convenient. If true,” he replied. Macklin firmly suppressed the flare of anger at the accusation implicit in Willis' words. “However, that's not what Taylor says.”

Macklin's eyes narrowed at the first piece of the puzzle being offered to him. “Excuse me?”

Willis shuffled through his papers deliberately. “Taylor says that they heard a disturbance in Reynolds' room some time before he alerted you. He further says that, after catching you and Draven in flagrante delicto -” he pursed his lips in mock distaste - “that neither of you appeared surprised by the news.” He put the papers down and turned his gaze to Macklin. “Now – the rear of the building where Reynolds was situated backs onto the rifle ranges, and by your own admission, Draven spent the late afternoon and early evening – just prior to Reynolds' murder, in fact – in that area. In light of that, perhaps you'd care to explain why the news of a dead agent did not appear to concern you?”

Macklin sat back in the chair, crossing his arms again, as he gave Wills an evaluating look. “I think you have a bigger problem than a murdered agent, Willis,” he said quietly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke saw Doyle and Bodie as he approached his car, both men lounging with a kind of latent threat in their easy manner.

“Doyle. Bodie,” he greeted them.

Bodie nodded his acknowledgement. Doyle's face remained impassive, his eyes hidden by mirrored aviator glasses against the impossibly bright winter sunlight.

Luke sighed. “Let's get this over with.” He moved to his car. “Follow me.”

“Where we going?” Doyle demanded.

“My apartment,” Luke replied, sounding tired and irritable. “I'm off duty and I'm knackered, so get a move on.” He got into his car, starting the engine as soon as the door had closed.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look before getting back into the silver Capri. With a nod to Peterson, they indicated their readiness. Luke gave a disparaging look before pulling off, allowing the Capri to follow him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie lay on the neatly made bed, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands behind her head. She stared at the ceiling, the book she had tried to distract herself with lying discarded beside her.

She felt – nothing. Empty. Closed off, withdrawn, shut down. She couldn't allow herself to feel. She knew the first emotion would be anger – anger at her own impotence, forced into the protection of a man she trusted even less than she trusted any other, forced into hiding. And rage – furious, burning, useless rage – that Macklin should be brought to this. Taken like a lamb to the slaughter. No – worse than that. Lead like a willing sacrifice. Brian Macklin, at the mercy of Willis and his MI6 cronies, with only Cowley and CI5 to make sure fair play ensued.

Fair play. She knew how Willis worked. Knew only too well the dirty games he played with the lives of his men, and the depths to which he'd go to get the neat, tidy little results his accountant mind so craved.

She took a deep breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned, hearing her heart beat echoing in her ears, before releasing it slowly. Anger would not help her. It wouldn't help Macklin.

Macklin.

She closed her eyes, the image of that tall, broad-shouldered figure – so powerful, so familiar – burned in her memory. The clear, keen look in his steel-blue eyes as he'd stroked her face. The firm resolve in his stance as he'd turned and walked away from her with Doyle.

A sharp stab of pain made her gasp, then curl instinctively around herself, drawing her legs up and rolling onto her side. The pain built with each cramp, slight noises escaping from her tightly clenched teeth as she tried to ride the spasms. When this happened at home, Macklin would take her into her arms, his presence a reassuring warmth at her back, his arms around her, stroking and gentling her abdomen as the pain ripped through her. He couldn't stop the pain, but he offered her his strength, and she had learned to take comfort from it.

The cramps had become worse over the years. At the beginning, the pain had been excruciating and frequent. The exercises and healing had lessened them, until, by the time she was 17 years old, they were rare. Then, after years of pushing herself, they had returned. It had started gradually at first, but there reached a point where she had to accept the fact that this was unavoidable. She couldn't change it, therefore she would have to accept it.

It wasn't easy. Macklin, though, made such things easier. In Hong Kong, he had always known – even when she had learned to hide her pain, when the attacks had been more bearable. He had always given her a sharp look, a crease between those dark eyes the only sign of his concern, and watched her while she bore it. He had never commented, never spoken about it. He simply knew. And now – now he could hold her the way she had wanted him to all those years ago, the way she now knew he had wanted to back then. The same look clouded his eyes, the same crease of shared pain – only now he could hold her, kiss her neck, and help her ride it out.

She felt the cramps begin to relax, felt the pain start to subside as the attack passed. She was breathless, a light sheen of sweat coating her face. They were getting worse, there was no doubt of it. And more frequent. And Macklin – being Macklin – was bound to have noticed.

She wondered whether he had begun to guess what it meant.

Macklin had told her once, many years ago, that the secret wasn't not to feel pain. The secret was not minding. And she hadn't – for so many years, she hadn't minded the pain. Pain proved she was alive. But pain had its price, and it was this - she was wearing out. She had pushed her body so hard, so far, for so long, and it was starting to fail her. It wouldn't kill her, and it wouldn't cripple her. But it would stop her doing her job, and it would put an end to her days of sparring with Macklin.

What if he could carry on once she was invalided from the job? How would Brian Macklin cope with a sedentary life, without the physical challenges their jobs offered? She would never expect him to give it all up simply because she could no longer be part of that. She had never believed she had much of a present to concern her, never mind the possibility of a future. Macklin had changed all that; he had given her the desire to see another day, with him. But this could kill that contentment. What if he wanted more?

Time was precious. They had wasted so much, every day was too important to lose. She didn't know what the future held, didn't know what would happen to her or Macklin as their lives changed, but she knew she wanted to find out. She wanted lots of memories for the times when she couldn't do what they did now. Unlike any other time in her life, she thought about tomorrow and what it would bring. Macklin had given her the luxury of speculation, of hoping, of wanting to build a store of memories to share, and experiences to repeat as many times as they wished. All they needed was time.

And Willis was wasting it.

There was always the worry that she was on borrowed time. She knew Macklin loved her; she didn't doubt that for an instant. But she didn't deserve him. And she couldn't shake the fear that, one day, he would wake up and realise it. He deserved so much more than what she was. And what that? Scarred, mentally and physically. Damaged. Barren. Brian Macklin deserved the world, but all she could give him was herself. And she knew it wasn't enough.

She sighed as the spasm finally passed, uncurling from her position and lying down straight. No. She wouldn't think about Willis. She would forget the threat of retirement on the grounds of ill health. And she would not think – never think – of losing Macklin. She would think of nothing. Cold, closed off, withdrawn.

She heard the key turning in the lock signalling Luke's return, and felt empty.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke entered the flat, throwing his keys to the sideboard near the door. He rubbed his neck, feeling the tension tight in his muscles. Bodie and Doyle entered behind him, two pairs of eyes glancing over the flat, assessing and appraising.

“Take a seat.” Luke gestured to the white leather sofas, before removing his jacket, arranging it neatly across the back of one of the dining chairs. “Drink?”

“Hi honey, you're home.” Maggie stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, and legs crossed at the ankles as she leaned against the door frame. Her head hung low and she looked up at them, her attitude lazy and belligerent at the same time. Her red-rimmed eyes were dry.

Doyle watched her carefully. There was a glint of something in the back of those dark, almost violet, eyes. Something hurting. Something not quite sane.

“How you doing, Maggie?” Bodie asked gently, aware of the strangely fragile and dangerous mood possessing her.

Luke's face tightened as he looked at her. “We need to ask you some questions,” he said. She turned her stony gaze on him, and he frowned at the dead look in her eyes. “If that's okay,” he added, confused by the strange expression on her face.

“Yes.” The word was snapped out, curt and clipped. The three men exchanged looks as she entered the room, apparently ignoring them all as she sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, her arms resting on her raised knees. She seemed to have avoided all lines of sight through the windows without a second thought, and taken a space in the room where she could be seen by the three men sat on the white leather sofas, but not by anyone looking from outside.

Magpie knew instinctively the safest place in any room.

Doyle eyed her cautiously. He hadn't seen this level of withdrawal in her since the first time they had met. Somehow, in the space of a few hours, Maggie had reverted straight back to the Magpie who watched every shadow and survived entirely on her nerves. He glared at Luke.

“What have you said to her?” he demanded.

Luke gave a look of offended dignity. “Not a damn thing,” he said sharply.

“He's not done anything, Ray. Leave it.” Maggie's voice was flat and lifeless, almost bored.

Bodie and Doyle watched her as Luke disappeared into the kitchen, wary of breaking through the self-protective wall with which she surrounded herself.

“You coping alright here, Maggie?” Bodie asked gently, making his question as light and natural as possible.

“Fine,” she replied. “We get along just great, so long as he's out at work.”

The attempt at humour may have worked had there been any crack in the immobile, expressionless mask. Instead, the flat, lifeless words held a ring of truth.

Luke returned with four coffees, putting them on the glass topped coffee table placed with geometric precision between the two sofas. Maggie sat on the floor, unresponsive. Only the closest inspection could see the slight movement of her breathing. She blinked mechanically, infrequently.

Luke loosened his tie, undoing the top buttons of his shirt with a sigh of relief. He undid his shirt cuffs, folding them back, exposing strong forearms sprinkled with fine dark hair. Bodie sat with careful elegance, leaning back into the white leather, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. Doyle sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, keen green eyes regarding Maggie with caution.

“You were going to ask questions,” Maggie said at last, aware of their scrutiny.

Luke took a seat opposite the two CI5 men, Maggie positioned between them. He mirrored Doyle's position, leaning forward.

“Just tell us what you did that day,” he prompted.

Bodie watched Luke, suspicion lurking behind the lazy navy blue eyes. He didn't trust Peterson, and he didn't care enough to hide it. But there was something gentle in the way he phrased the question to her, something in his voice Bodie had not heard before.

Maggie blinked slowly. “We split the teams, four and four. One on the assault course with Brian and Towser, the other with me. Started 6am. We swapped around 2pm. Finished around 6.45.”

“Where was Reynolds?” Doyle asked.

“Finished on the rifle ranges with me and three others. Field stripped the Kalashnikovs, then dismissed them.” A frown flickered over her face as a memory returned. “The recoil spring on Reynolds' AK broke, so he couldn't do it. I had to stay to repair it. I hit the showers around 7.30.”

“And where was Macklin?” Doyle phrased the question as naturally as possible, knowing that any mention of Macklin was likely to prompt a total shut down in her.

She blinked at the name, but showed no other sign of recognition. “He wasn't around when I finished. I'd been in the showers around ten or fifteen minutes by the time he got there.”

“Where had he been?” Bodie asked.

“Assault course. Smoke grenade had failed to detonate, so he had to fish it out of the mud and deactivate it.” A hint of smile pulled the corners of her mouth and her eyes seemed to mist at the memory. “He was filthy.”

Bodie and Doyle gave Luke a questioning glance. He nodded once. So far, everything she had said matched with what Macklin had said to him and Willis.

“What can you tell us about Reynolds?” Luke asked. Macklin had been close lipped about the dead agent, Willis' attitude making him wary of voicing any opinion or sharing any information. Willis had been so intent on twisting anything Macklin said that Luke couldn't blame him for his reticence.

Maggie moved suddenly, running her fingers through her hair, her animation a complete contrast to her previously frozen demeanour.

“Not a lot. Above average, not exceptional. Scored midway all across the board.” A frown appeared as a thought struck her. “Not a team player, but then they weren't there for team work. Just standard evaluation.”

“What do you mean, team player?” Doyle asked.

She looked up, her eyes showing a spark of life for the first time since she had walked in the room. “We tailor the training according to the agency specifications,” she explained. “Whether it's for special ops, or standard procedures. We run you ragged, you know that.” Her gaze moved from one man to the other. “We're assessing your reactions, checking your instincts. We don't give you time to think once, never mind twice, so the way you act is your instinctive reaction. In team support, you expect the members of the team to react as one - one unit, one thought. Each one watches the other back. But they weren't like that.”

“How did they react?” Bodie asked.

She gave a small shrug. “Reynolds didn't seem to trust them, and they didn't seem to factor him into their decisions. Surprise them, and some would protect others, most would protect themselves and at least one other team member. But Reynolds was left to fend for himself, and he seemed to know it.”

“Would that have appeared in your report?” Luke asked.

“No,” she said. “We weren't assessing teams or team potential. Only individuals. If Six had suggested sending them out as a team, then yes – we'd definitely have made it known.”

“You've not got much experience in team playing yourself,” Doyle said quietly. “What makes you qualified to comment?”

She shot him a glare, her violet eyes sparkling with the first flash of emotion they had seen. “I don't work in a team,” she agreed. “But I'm very good at spotting the weakest point in one. The point of attack. If those eight had been a security team, Reynolds would have been that weakness. They wouldn't have noticed if he'd been late for a call in, wouldn't have noticed any deviation from his normal patterns. They simply didn't know him.”

“What about the room Reynolds was in?” Bodie asked.

“Standard,” she said quickly. “No points of entrance but the door and the windows.”

“So,” Doyle said, a smile on his face that did not reach his green eyes. “If you were to do a hit on him, in that room, in those circumstances – how would you do it?”

She met his gaze without blinking, staring into his eyes, her own expression suddenly closed down. “There's two important things to remember about a locked room murder,” she said quietly, her voice flat and cold. “They're either not a locked room, or not a murder. Nothing else.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Luke asked sharply.

She turned her hard stare to him. “It's simple,” she said, her voice rising to snap harshly. “Things aren't as they seem. Either the room wasn't locked, or only made to look locked, or another entrance. Or it's an elaborate suicide.”

“A suicide doesn't stab himself in the heart with a stiletto.”

She turned back to Doyle, frowning at his comment. “A stiletto?” she repeated. “Who the hell uses a stiletto in the heart to kill someone?”

“Well, that's pretty much what we're asking you,” Doyle replied.

She blinked, taken aback by the accusation hiding behind his words. “No-one would use a stiletto, not without a bloody good reason,” she said. “They're impractical. Useless except for one stab. And not efficient through the heart, only through the head. I don't trust any weapon that's only good for one point of attack, and no-one holds still while you stick a spike through their head. You have to creep up on them.”

“You ever used a stiletto?” Bodie asked.

She looked away from them, staring instead at her hands, hanging down as her elbows rested on her knees. “Twice,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Care to elaborate?” Doyle prompted.

She glared at him. “One – Sicily. Guy killed a member of the Mob with a stiletto, and they wanted the same blade used to kill him.”

“How did you do it?” Luke asked, morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

He hands clasped and unclasped with nervous tension. “Waited til he got falling down drunk. Grabbed a hand full of his hair, pulled back, and put it straight down from the top of his head out the bottom of his jaw.” She related the details calmly and quickly, no flicker of emotion in her recollection. Only the reflexive twitch of her fingers as they knotted with each other betrayed her disquiet. “Takes the body about thirty seconds to realise it's dead. Lots of twitching and kicking, but it's only reflex actions. They die immediately.”

“Jesus,” Doyle breathed.

“And the second?” Bodie asked, before she could react to Doyle's disgust.

She looked away, her jaw visibly clenching. “Through the temple, then revolver at point blank to hide the wound,” she said quietly, reluctantly. “Made it look like suicide.”

Doyle stared at her. “You're a fucking piece of work, aren't you?” he growled.

Her head shot up and she glared at him angrily. “Don't get on your fucking soap box of morality with me, Ray Doyle,” she snapped. “Do you sit in judgement on things your partner did in his dim and distant past? No. So get off my fucking back.”

Doyle looked down at his hands, hiding his smile. Maggie was always easier to deal with angry than withdrawn. He'd rather hear her spitting insults and swearing than watch her sit in quiet desolation.

“So think about Reynolds' room,” Bodie asked, eager to capitalise on the freshly enervated Maggie before she withdrew again. “How would you do it?”

Her gaze narrowed. “You think I did it,” she said, a flat statement rather than a question.

“No,” Luke answered quickly. She turned to him sharply. “You didn't do it,” he said, and Bodie and Doyle marvelled at the honesty they heard in his voice. “But you could do it. And if you can do it, so can someone else.”

She stared at him, trying to assess the thoughts going on behind the eyes so like the ones that stared back at her from the mirror every day. “Fair enough,” she said, suddenly calm. “I wouldn't do it in that room.”

“Pretend,” Doyle said sharply. “Come on, Maggie. You're the locked room specialist.”

“But it's just not possible,” she objected, her voice rising in anger. “You could force the door, then remould it with wax, make it look whole. But that wouldn't stand up to kicking the door in, only turning the lock. It's been done before. And it takes time and preparation, neither of which you'd have in this scenario.” She ran both hands through her hair harshly, leaving her fingers buried in the long black hair as she considered options. “You could kick in the door panel, reach in pretending to unlock the door but actual place the key there, so it only looks like the door was locked on the inside. But these were Yale locks. Deadlocks. They don't need a key to lock them.” She sighed, pulling her hair back from her pale face before untangling her fingers from the mane. “Yes,” she continued, now seeming to talk to the floor rather than any individual, as though speaking her thoughts aloud as they occurred to her. “You could get through the window, close it behind you with wire. Only the closest inspection would show the window wasn't fully closed. Did Six check that?” She shrugged, not pausing for an answer. “Or if you were patient, you could remove the window itself and replace it behind you. And if you were really clever, you could even make the putty still look old and cracked. But you'd need time. And the only thing that room backed onto was -.” She stopped suddenly, her eyes wide in shock. Her face paled. “Assault course,” she whispered.

She watched in horror as the three men exchanged meaningful glances. “Brian couldn't kill him,” she insisted, desperation giving her voice a shrill edge. “He's not a murderer.”

Bodie gave a short, harsh laugh. “Are you trying to say Brian Macklin couldn't kill someone?”

She frowned angrily. “Don't be stupid, Bodie. Of course he can kill. But he's not a murderer. There's a difference.”

“And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?” Doyle said with quiet accusation.

“Yes,” she said wearily. “I would. Of course I would,” she agreed. “Macklin's probably killed more people than any of us combined. But he's not a murderer. Not like me.” She sighed. “But I didn't kill him,” she said quietly. “I just didn't. You won't believe me, but that's the truth.”

“We'd need a motive,” Luke said quietly. “Willis is pushing for a reason to pin it on one of you.” He ignored the warning look from Bodie and Doyle. “But someone like you wouldn't need a motive, would you?” he continued relentlessly. “Just the challenge.”

“Why would I kill him?” she asked quietly. She sounded resigned to her guilt, as though she knew her innocence was impossible to prove.

“Because you could?” Bodie offered. “Because he was there? Because he copped a feel once too often?”

She sighed heavily. “Oh, Bodie. If I killed everyone who took the chance to grab me, the secret service would be decimated.” She looked tired. “They all try it – either to try and catch me unawares, or surprise me. It's a valid form of attack. And even if they do it because they're sexist bastards, I'm quite capable of administering a kick to the bollocks that puts them off trying it again.”

“Yes, you are,” Doyle agreed. “And so is Macklin.”

She shot him a look. “Macklin wouldn't kill a man for touching me. Something for which you of all people should be very grateful.”

“What about Adams?” Doyle said, ignoring her reference to their relationship.

“A different set of circumstances,” she answered immediately.

“And what if Reynolds threatened Macklin somehow,” Doyle continued remorselessly. “You're not above protecting Macklin regardless of cost, are you?”

She stared at him, her violet eyes hard and unblinking. “I didn't kill Reynolds,” she repeated slowly and firmly. “And Macklin didn't kill him.”

“You sure about that?” Bodie insisted.

Her gaze flickered to him, and she wasn't quick enough to hide the sudden flash of doubt that appeared in her eyes. “He didn't kill him,” she repeated, although it seemed more to convince herself than them. Confusion creased her face. “He wouldn't. He had no reason. He had no time.”

“But he was on the assault course,” Doyle said softly.

“And Reynolds had to stay behind on the rifle range with you to fix the Kalashnikov,” Bodie added.

Her frown deepened as she looked from one man to the other, trying to work out what they were asking her, how to answer a question she didn't understand.

“They didn't find Reynolds' body until 9pm, and they didn't inform you until 10,” Luke said quietly.

She turned to him quickly. “That long?” she whispered. “Why so long?”

Luke met her gaze candidly. “They had to inform Father immediately. He is their first duty,” he said softly.

Maggie looked down at the floor, her surge of energy suddenly drained and gone. Underneath the gaze of the three men, she started to withdraw and dull before their eyes.

“Is there any other way into Reynolds' room?” Bodie asked.

She shook her head, her movements slow and sluggish again. “No,” she said. “It's part of an old shelter. It's built partly into the ground. The roof was extended, the top windows added after. Some rooms have hidden entrances, but not that one.”

“You're sure?” Bodie insisted.

She nodded. “Positive. There's no hidden entrance to that room.”

Doyle leaned back in his seat, meeting Bodie's eyes in unspoken conversation. “I think that's it for us,” he said finally.

Luke kept watching his half-sister, unsure of how to deal with the sudden return to quiet withdrawal. He sensed that this was far more dangerous and unpredictable than her anger. And she was a stranger to him at the best of times. Bodie and Doyle moved, shifting his attention back to them as they stood to leave, their coffee untouched in front of them.

“We'll be off then,” Bodie said. “Make our reports and let you know if we find anything.”

Luke stood to see them out. “Yes,” he said, distracted by his thoughts. “I'll let you know if I get anything else. I'll look into Reynolds' background.”

“So will we,” Doyle said firmly. The cool green gaze gave nothing away. “We might find something different.”

Luke nodded, not bothering to wonder whether they trusted him to share his findings or not. He followed them to the door. Before leaving, Doyle stepped up close to him, faster than Luke could back away. Doyle's finger hovered in accusation in front of his chest.

“Watch what you say to her,” Doyle whispered, his voice threatening. “No cheap shots just because she's worried sick about Macklin. Understand?”

Luke gave him a bored look. “Do I look like one of your stooges to be intimidated by your hard man act, Doyle?” he snarled nastily.

“No,” Bodie agreed with an easy, amiable smile. The navy blue eyes, though, were those of a killer. “But you can't pretend you haven't got a score to settle with her. And if you try settling it now, you'll find more trouble than you thought possible.”

Luke sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Just piss off,” he snapped, closing the door on them.

Doyle stared at the closed door as seconds ticked slowly by. Bodie stood beside him, a calculating look on his handsome face. “Do you trust him?” he asked.

Doyle gave an abrupt bark of laughter. “Trust him? You've got to be kidding.” He turned away to leave. Bodie followed behind him. “What do you think?” Doyle asked as they entered the lift. “Do you think she did it?”

Bodie took a deep breath, holding it for a second before releasing it as the lift doors closed with the same sighing sound. “I think she could do it,” he said finally. “I think either one of them are about the only ones who could.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke returned to the lounge, where Maggie still sat on the floor. She had not moved at all as the two CI5 men left, and now she sat wearing the same expressionless mask as when they had arrived. Luke didn't know how to treat her. He had no experience of what she was like under normal circumstances, but it didn't take genius to know that these circumstances were far from normal.

He regarded her carefully. She was like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He pulled a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the nearby cabinet before taking his seat again on the sofa. The bottle and glasses clinked against the glass top of the coffee table. She didn't react as he poured two healthy measures of Jameson's, sliding one across the glass surface towards her. She looked at the glass at last, as though working out what it was for, before reaching for it and taking a sip of the amber fluid.

She grimaced. “You have lousy choice in whiskey,” she said, baring her teeth in a shudder as the liquid burned down her throat.

“I'll get something else tomorrow,” he drawled lazily.

They sat in silence nursing their drinks. Finally, Luke swirled the drink in his glass, watching the flickers of gold in the resultant whirlpool. “If I ask a question, will you answer it?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately. “Was that the question?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She turned to look at him, curious at the note of finality in his voice. “I'll answer it if I can,” she replied, her voice more gentle this time.

“You're the only one who can,” he said.

She watched him cautiously, a frown creasing her features. “What do you want to know?”

He stared into his glass. “How did you kill my father?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She coughed uncomfortably, the air suddenly choking her. “You do ask the most uncomfortable questions,” she said as soon as she could speak.

He looked up from his drink to fix her with his dark blue eyes, flecks of amethyst in the depths. “Tell me.”

She sipped the whiskey uneasily, unable to look at him. It was her turn to stare into her drink. Long seconds ticked past as she thought over her words.

“It was night,” she started quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “He was working in his study. I'd broken in and waited until everything was quiet. Then I crept up on him with a gun, fitted with a suppressor.” She stared into nothing, suddenly transported back to a time she had tried so hard to forget.

 _She approached him from out of the shadows as he sat at his desk, the only illumination the green banker's lamp hovering over the paperwork he concentrated on so hard. She hadn't placed the gun against his temple. It wasn't television and she wasn't going to give him the chance to startle her and knock the weapon from her hand. The suppressor on the end of the 1922 Browning made it heavy and unwieldy, but she had leaned to compensate for it. She had stepped into the golden glow of the lamp, appearing in front of the desk, the gun pointed unwaveringly at him. He had looked surprised, shocked as he recognised her. Then something else had entered his expression. Something that had made the anger burn cold inside her._

“He was amused,” she remembered. “He recognised me almost immediately, but he didn't think I was serious. I was only 17.”

 _She had watched him carefully, but she had already checked the desk for weapons, even hiding the letter opener that had been positioned exactly where his right hand now lay on the desk. There wasn't anything there he could use as a weapon, except for the pen in his hand. And she wouldn't underestimate that._

 _“Get out now, Morgan, and I'll forget you didn't die when you should have,” he had said with a laugh._

 _She had held out her other hand, the rope swinging gently. “Just wear it for a while,” she had whispered. “See how it feels.”_

“I – persuaded – him,” she said, hesitating over the words. “With the gun, I persuaded him to let me tie his hands behind his back at the elbows so no rope burns appeared on his wrists. I gagged him.”

 _But she hadn't gagged him. She wanted to hear anything he had to say, not that he spoke much to start with, not once he realised she meant business. “You really need to play along, Peterson,” she said with an almost playful glint in her eyes. “After all, there's your wife and son upstairs. You should really think about what I could do to them if you make me angry. I'm sure I can be just as inventive as the men you sent to my father's house.” She had felt a surge of pleasure at the sudden panic in his face. “In fact,” she continued, in the same cold, pleasant voice. “You should perhaps consider whether I've already paid them a visit while you've been sat down here checking your accounts.”_

“I put the noose around his neck and told him to get on the chair. Then I looped it through the beams and pulled until he was on tip toe, then tied it off. Then I kicked the chair from under him.”

 _It hadn't been that quick. She'd let him think she would only throttle him, that she just wanted him to feel for himself what it was like. And to begin with, she had. Then she'd replaced the chair beneath his feet and allowed him to think he might survive the night, before taking the chair away from him again._

 _Five times she'd replaced the chair and removed it, watching each time as his struggles grew weaker and weaker. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, turning them red, bulging in their sockets as he slowly strangled. His lips blued, spittle frothing and flecking as he fought for breath. His face turned red as blood, veins protruding beneath the skin in ugly lumps. She'd watched as his struggles faded, until his eyes turned dull, and the desperate kicking of his feet turned into reflexive twitching. Only when she was absolutely satisfied he was dead did she remove the ropes from his elbows. Then she'd sat at his desk and carefully written his suicide note in her practiced forged hand._

“It was quicker than I expected,” she lied. “It was all over in a few minutes.” It had been over an hour. But he didn't need to know that. He didn't need to hear how his father had begged and pleaded for his life. She didn't owe Martin Peterson and his son a thing, but she would make this gift for him. Whatever image he had of his father would be his alone; she would do nothing to alter it.

Luke nodded, his face expressionless throughout her explanation. He drained his glass in one gulp, coughing as the harsh liquor burned his throat. He put the glass down on the table and stood up.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, before turning to leave the room.

“Luke.” He turned back at his name. “Do you think we killed Reynolds?” she asked.

He stared at her as long seconds ticked by. She held her breath. “No,” he said at last. “I know you're capable of it. I know you could have done it. But I don't think you did.”

“Why not?” she asked, unsure whether she really wanted that question answering, but she needed to know.

He tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips in thought. “Because you wouldn't do that to Macklin,” he said at last. “And you'd never give Macklin reason to kill him.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's quite simple,” he explained. “You would never threaten Macklin by killing someone in a way that would throw any suspicion on him. And the only reason Macklin would have to kill someone is if you were screwing around behind his back, or if they threatened you. And even then, he would never do it in a way that would throw suspicion on you. You're both quite transparent, if you know how to look.”

She stared at him, shocked at his simple and surprisingly accurate assessment of them. He barely knew them, and yet he sounded so certain.

He made as if to leave the room, but paused in the doorway before turning back to her. “And I know you lied just,” he said quietly. “You didn't let him die easy, and my father would have begged for his life. I know he would.”

She let out a harsh breath, not knowing how to respond to his perceptive words. She fought for denial, some way of allowing him some kind of dignity from it.

“You lied,” he repeated. “But thank you for it.”

He turned and left the room, leaving her still struggling for words.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

“So what have we got?” Doyle rested one foot on the dashboard, leaning his elbow on his raised knee, and his head on his hand.

Bodie changed gear smoothly, idly wondering if taking the next corner at 30 mph would make his partner bang his head against the window of the passenger door, and whether he would be able to get away with calling it an accident.

“Without a motive, there's no reason for Macklin or Maggie to have killed Reynolds,” he stated, deciding that perhaps he'd save tormenting his partner to another day.

“And Towser?”

Bodie glanced across at him. “Or him,” he said. “You're the ex-copper, Ray. You're the one who always needs a motive.”

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed with a lazy drawl, pulling at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “But Peterson's got a point. Maggie's a borderline sociopath. She'd do something like this just for the exercise in lateral thinking.”

Bodie grinned. “And you slept with her. On several occasions, as I recall.”

Doyle gave him a wry smile. “Sociopath, not serial killer,” he said with deliberate precision. “Don't you pay attention when Ross is talking?”

“Too busy wondering what underwear she's wearing,” Bodie replied with a lecherous look, the tip of his tongue appearing between his lips.

Doyle chuckled filthily. “You would.” His laugh faded as he stared out of the passenger window. “Thing is, much as I hate to agree with Willis, they are the best option.”

Bodie gave him a doubtful look. “Yeah, but this is Macklin we're talking about. He didn't rip you apart, no matter how much he looked like he wanted to.”

Doyle pouted thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he agreed. “And Peterson is still alive. Always assuming Macklin knows who he is and what he did to Maggie.”

Bodie nodded slowly. “Now there's a thought,” he agreed softly. “Point is, there are far more likely contenders for Macklin to kill than some random MI6 bloke.”

Doyle worried his lip distractedly. “Unless there's nothing random about him,” he murmured.

“Eh?”

“We need to find out about Reynolds,” Doyle continued, ignoring Bodie's interruption. “Find out about him, and we'll find out who benefits most from his death.”

“Cui Bono?” Bodie flashed him a sidelong look.

Doyle gave a predatory smile. “Cui Bono,” he agreed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Cowley's office. Now.” Murphy's dire pronouncement greeted them as soon as they walked through the door.

“Charming, that,” Bodie murmured. “Not even a smile, cup of tea, hi Bodie how are you today. No – straight in.”

Doyle chuckled at his partner's constant monologue as they walked through the corridors to Cowley's office.

Doyle knocked and entered the office, ducking instinctively as a folder was thrown expertly at him. It hit Bodie squarely in the chest.

“Reynolds' autopsy,” Cowley growled. “I want the full report, not some pathetic scribbling of notes, which is all Willis has seen fit to send me.” His voice rose as his temper took full rein, the grey eyes flashing with anger, his lips drawn back over his teeth. “And I want a full autopsy, not some idiot who takes one look at a stab wound and assumes the cause of death.”

“You think there's more to it than the stiletto?” Doyle asked.

“I'm not assuming anything, laddie, and neither should you.” His index finger stabbed the desktop, punctuating each word. “I want evidence.”

“What about the files on Reynolds and the others that were there?” Bodie asked.

Cowley looked up sharply. “Get them. Get what we know about them, and find out what Peterson comes up with.”

The two men exchanged nods, turning back to the door to leave. “The files are on your desks,” Cowley called after them.

Doyle gave a tired smile as Bodie rolled his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” Bodie replied with saccharine sweetness.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

A mug of tea appeared at Bodie's elbow, placed there by a weary and impatient Doyle.

“Cheers.”

Doyle slurped his tea noisily. After so many years partnered, Bodie thought he should have got used to the sound by now, but after four hours stuck in the small, cramped office, poring over personnel files, it had started to annoy as much as nails down a blackboard.

“What have you got?” Doyle asked, ignoring the sigh of self-sacrifice from his partner.

Bodie rubbed a hand over his face, closing the file in front of him. “Jenkins,” he said, picking up the folder closest to his hand. “32 years of age. Passed over for promotion last three years running. Can't be left alone with a suspect.”

“Too quick with his fists?” Doyle asked.

Bodie nodded. “Yep.”

Doyle slurped his tea again. “Hope he doesn't get near Macklin or Towser, then.”

“They'd rip him apart,” Bodie said with smooth confidence. He picked up another file. “Hughes – 28. Joined same time as Reynolds, undertook most of the basic training with him. They've been in the same teams more or less since the start of their careers.”

“Be interesting to ask him a few questions,” Doyle said thoughtfully.

“Just because they worked together doesn't mean they were bosom buddies,” Bodie said. He threw the folder to one side and picked up the next. “Taylor – most junior member there. 26 years old. Twelve months with the service, and the first time he'd been sent to see Macklin.”

“Wet behind the ears rookie?”

“Something like that,” Bodie agreed. “According to this, he was the one sent to break the news to Macklin.”

“Stooge,” Doyle said dismissively. “They sent the rookie to stick his head in the lion's den.”

“Rank hath privilege,” Bodie said archly. “Then there's Morris. The oldest, at 35. Had two disciplinaries for excessive force in questioning. One suspect had a heart attack, but he was cleared of any blame.”

Doyle's clear green eyes glittered. “Fucking hell,” he whispered. “Maggie's bloody right to be scared, leaving Macklin with them.”

Bodie met his gaze with a slow nod. “Yeah,” he agreed with a lazy drawl. “Even if it is Macklin and Towser.”

“Peterson said they've been kept apart,” Doyle said.

Bodie shrugged. “Standard procedure, though, isn't it? We'd do the same. What you got?”

Doyle leaned against his desk, looking down at the folders spread out across the surface. “Saunders – 31. Recently transferred from Five. Nothing funny about him, just down as a bloke who gets the job done, minimum fuss.”

“Fair enough. Next?”

“Lucas. 32. Ex-copper, although never stayed with one unit for long. With West Midlands Serious Crimes Squad for a year, just before getting through to Six.”

Bodie's eyebrows rose simultaneously. “Enough said there, I think.”

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed, opening his eyes wide. “Are this lot typical of Six, or did they just bundle most of their rotten apples together?”

“Who else you got?”

Doyle glanced down at the next file. “Short,” he said, reading the name upside down. “29. Spent few years in Hong Kong Special Branch before moving back here and straight into Six.”

“Did he work with Macklin in Hong Kong?” Bodie asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Doesn't say,” Doyle replied. “Macklin was in Hong Kong – what? Ten – fifteen years? Til '78 wasn't it?”

“Something like that.”

Doyle flicked through the file before shaking his head. “No. 1980 he went over.”

“So no connection with Macklin there.”

“And then we come to our Golden Boy,” Doyle said, reaching for the last file on his desk. “Greg Reynolds.”

Bodie sat back in his chair. “And what do we have on him?”

Doyle tilted his head to one side, as though about to impart the most salacious gossip imaginable. “Well, Maggie was right. Not a team player.”

“How's that?”

“Seems he'd put in for a transfer to another unit, to be made official once this training was over. His reasons were cited as an 'inability to adapt to the methods employed by the department'.”

Bodie pulled a face, looking down his nose as he nodded slowly. “Oh yes? And what would that be in English?”

Doyle raised his eyebrows as he replaced the file on the desk. “Well, we're going to have a dig a bit more for that, mate.”

“Your best guess?”

Doyle pursed his lips thoughtfully. “My best guess?” he repeated. Bodie nodded. “Well, my best guess would be, Reynolds didn't like the methods his colleagues used to obtain information.”

“Maybe we should get what-'er-name onto it. Mathers.”

Doyle pulled a face at the mention of the woman who had tried so hard to destroy CI5 in the wake of the death of Coogan in custody. The woman who had come so close to destroying his career, and the man whose death still haunted him. “That's the difference though, isn't it?” Doyle said grimly. “MI6 don't exist. They'd never wash their dirty linen in public.”

“No, they wouldn't,” Bodie agreed quietly. “They'd just pin it on someone else.”

The two men stared at each other, the only sound the ticking of the clock. Simultaneously, their expressions changed as realisation dawned.

“Fucking hell,” Doyle breathed.

“Yeah,” Bodie agreed, running his hand over his cropped hair with a heavy sigh. “How the hell do we find out whether Reynolds was killed to cover up something Six did?”

“You find out how he died.” Cowley's voice cut across their conversation, startling both men, who hadn't noticed their Controller standing in the doorway to their office. “Good work, lads,” he said, approval in his voice. “Get that autopsy report, and see what it uncovers. I'll look into Reynolds and any investigations he's been involved with recently. And whether any of them ended mysteriously.” Cowley pulled out his glasses to peruse the pictures he held in one hand.

“So we're certain it wasn't Maggie, Macklin or Towser?” Bodie asked, anxious for confirmation.

Cowley paused in putting on his glasses and gave Bodie a hard look. “Was that ever in question?” he asked silkily.

Bodie released his breath noisily, turning the gusting sigh into a short laugh. “No, sir,” he said firmly.

“Good,” Cowley said, finally placing the black rimmed glasses on his nose. “Now, I want you to look at these. Show them to Maggie and Peterson, see what they think.”

He handed the half a dozen 10 x 8 black and white photographs over to Bodie. Doyle leaned over his partner's desk to watch as Bodie spread the images across his desk. They were all of Reynolds, as he had been found in his room. Glassy-eyed, the dark stain across his chest, Reynolds stared back at them.

Doyle tilted his head to one side. “What's this?” he asked, pointing at the silver flask showing in Reynolds hand in one picture. Without waiting for an answer, he reached to his own desk, and pulled out the report of Reynolds' death, scanning the document quickly. “There's no hip flask listed in the items recovered from his room.”

Bodie stared at the images with a frown on his face. “I'll tell you something else,” he said quietly, holding the picture up in front of his face and staring at it with a practiced eye. “There's not a lot of blood there for a man who was stabbed through the heart and left to bleed out for an hour.”

Cowley smiled grimly. “Aye, laddie. That's what bothered me as well.” He turned on his heel and left the room. “Find out about that flask, and find out what Peterson knows,” he called back over his shoulder.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. “Better give him a ring then,” Doyle said at last.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke showered lazily, knowing this was the last moment of peace, the last time he would have to himself, before setting foot outside. He hadn't heard any movement from the rest of the apartment, but he knew Maggie would still be out there.

He sighed, letting the water run over his head and down his back as he leaned against the cool tiles. He lowered his head, water streaming from his chin and nose.

What the hell was he doing, letting Maggie stay with him? When he'd got the call from Willis, his first thought had been that his boss had sounded far too pleased, and far too eager to pin everything on Macklin and the others. Luke was lots of things, some of which he wasn't very proud of, but he was a good copper, with good instincts. Just because it suited his boss to have a stick to beat CI5 with didn't mean it was the correct solution. And whatever else he knew about Macklin, Maggie and Towser, he just couldn't see them killing a trainee, by accident or design.

Not that he really knew Maggie at all. She always managed to be on leave when his time for training came around. He'd wondered how Macklin would treat him when he'd heard Maggie had joined the staff; wondered if the powerful machine no-one quite believed was human knew what had happened between Maggie and her half-brother. Not that he'd known she was his half-sister at the time.

His mother had known, of course. How else would she recognised Morgan Draven after so many years, except by recognising her own daughter? He cursed under his breath. His mother had haunted him throughout his life, hanging around his neck like the proverbial albatross. He knew some people had thought he was nothing but a Mummy's Boy, tied to his mother's apron strings. The truth was more that he'd been garotted by them, bound and lashed to the mast while she drove him to be more than his father was, better than he had been, and always doomed to failure, because in his mother's eyes, his father had been nothing but perfect. When he had been alive, Luke knew she had not idolised him so. But in death, his father had achieved a state of perfection he had fallen far short of in real life.

Luke had no love for his father; all he remembered was a hard man, unspeaking unless to snap insults and disappointment. Unemotional, unless it was outbursts of wild temper. Boarding school had been a blessing to Luke as a child, a welcome release from the cold, bitter house shared with his parents. When his father died, however, boarding school had ended, and he'd found himself forced into the position of the man of the house.

Even that responsibility had gone now. His mother was dead, murdered by Maggie just as she'd murdered his father. And he still wasn't sure how he felt about that. Filial devotion and parental love meant nothing to him, but he knew about Stockholm Syndrome and how the captive began to feel reliant on their captor, as though in love with them. He felt that far more encapsulated his relationship with his parents than the usual familial love.

She was his sister. He'd always wanted a sister. Well, that wasn't quite true – he'd wanted a brother. But during a lonely childhood, even a sister would have been a welcome ally, he'd thought. Even that simple, childish wish had been warped and twisted. He had a sister – but he hadn't found out about her until he was 30 years of age. And then he'd been told by a wiry, sad-faced Scotsman that the woman he'd watched almost tortured to death was his half-sister. That his mother had known that, even as she urged him into arranging the harassment and final abduction of his own sister. And that while the Magpie had murdered his father, and others his father had called friends, she had bloody good reasons for it.

He turned the taps off, shaking the beads of water from his face, and reached for the towel. Hell, if Macklin wanted to kill anyone in MI6, it should have been him. Especially as Maggie was more than just a work colleague to Macklin.

He dried quickly, padding through to his bedroom. He rubbed his hair vigorously, pausing when he heard the water start again, and realising Maggie had started her own shower. She was definitely still around.

The telephone ringing interrupted his thoughts. “Peterson.”

“Bodie. We've got something for you to take a look at. We're on our way over.”

The clipped tones down the telephone told him nothing. He nodded. “Okay. Door's open. Come straight in.”

The telephone was dead before he replaced the handset. He hadn't quite worked out what Maggie thought about him, but Bodie and Doyle had made their position clear. He pulled on the loose fitting cotton lounge pants and padded through to the front door, flicking the latch to leave the door open for when the CI5 men appeared. On his way back to his bedroom, he heard the water stop in the bathroom. Maggie opened the bathroom door, startled to find him in the corridor. A white towel swathed her black hair, another towel wrapped around her.

Luke stepped back immediately, his hands held out palms up in surrender. “Sorry,” he said.

“Hey. Luke?”

The blood froze in his veins at the sound of the voice from the front door. He caught the wide-eyed look of surprise in Maggie's face.

“Palmer,” he breathed. He gave her a rueful look, his head tilting to one side. “Sorry,” he said. Before she could react, he grabbed her by her arms, pirouetting smoothly so her back faced the door from the lounge. He pulled the towel from her body, using it to pull her towards him, wrapped around her lower back. One towel hid her hair, and the other hid any distinctive scars he knew would appear on her lower back – another reminder of their last meeting. He gripped the towel firmly, pulling her against him, feeling the warm, still damp body pressed against his bare chest.

She opened her mouth to protest, which made kissing her far easier. He could taste coffee and whisky on her as he kissed her deeply.

“Luke?” Palmer froze in the doorway, taking in the sight of the naked woman in Peterson's arms, before flushing and turning away quickly. “Oh – sorry,” he stammered, exiting back to the lounge as quickly as possible, closing the door behind him.

Luke pulled away from her as soon as the door closed. “Sorry about that,” he whispered, before pushing past her to enter the lounge.

Palmer stood looking out over the darkened lounge, polishing his glasses. He still looked flushed and embarrassed. “You never learned how to knock, Palmer?” Luke asked with a grin.

Palmer turned, his hazel eyes wide and earnest. “I'm sorry. Honestly, I'm sorry. The door was open.”

“Never mind,” Luke interrupted him smoothly, noticing the buff folder lying on the coffee table. Palmer must have brought it with him. “What's that?”

“Autopsy on Reynolds,” Palmer explained, following Luke's gaze. “But,” he hesitated, looking away as Luke gave him a questioning glance. “Look – are you clean?” The gesture of his hand, moving in small circles, indicated he was asking whether the room was bugged rather than any other interpretation.

Luke nodded. “Yeah. Checked as soon as I came back,” he confirmed. CI5 clean, he could have added.

Palmer gave him a rueful look. “Father's already seen it. And it's not complete, not any more.”

Luke ran his fingers through his damp hair. “What the hell is he playing at?” he asked, not actually aiming the question at Palmer.

Palmer shrugged. “He won't see this lying on our doorstep, not when he's got a handy scapegoat around.”

“How are Macklin and Towser doing?”

Palmer sighed before giving another shrug. “Towser was okay for a while, but he's started pacing his cell. Macklin is still lying stretched out on his bed. Hasn't moved since Father left him.”

“Anything on Draven?” Luke was almost afraid to ask.

Palmer shook his head. “Nothing. Left the country, according to latest information. Apparently, there's a sick father in Italy.”

Luke hid his sigh of relief. He nodded. “Okay. I'll look over the report, then come in. Where's Father?”

“Gone home. For now,” Palmer replied. He frowned. “I can't see Macklin or Towser killing Reynolds, Luke.”

Luke eyed him cautiously. “Well, it's looking like that's not what Father wants to hear, Palmer,” he replied cautiously. “So I'd be careful who you say that to.”

Palmer nodded, moving to the front door. “I'll – er – leave you to – er – carry on, then,” he offered, embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

Luke smiled. “I think you killed the mood,” he replied with a laugh.

“Tell her sorry,” Palmer said, opening the door to leave. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah. Give me an hour or so,” Luke replied wearily. He raised his hand in farewell as Palmer left.

As soon as the door closed, he returned to the corridor. He heard the sound of retching, followed by the flush of the toilet. He pushed the bathroom door open cautiously, finding himself face to face with Maggie, looking pale and sickly.

“Have you just thrown up?” he asked incredulously.

She nodded slowly, wiping her mouth carefully.

He raised his eyebrows. “Never had that effect on a woman before,” he replied dryly. “I didn't think my technique was that bad.”

She gave him a weary look. “It's not. But you are my brother, and I can safely say, if there's one thing a sister should never know about her brother, it's whether he's a good kisser.”

Luke blinked rapidly as her words filtered through. He paled visibly, before pushing her out of the way and diving for the lavatory bowl himself.

“You see my point then,” she said dryly as he heaved into the pan. “To be fair, I'd give you top marks for improvisation,” she added. “Although I think it's probably best to leave it out of any assessment.”

He flushed the toilet, reaching for paper to wipe his mouth. Then a sound he'd never heard before registered. He turned around in amazement, unable to quite believe what he was hearing.

Maggie laughed. A loud, open-mouthed laugh of uncontrollable amusement. She threw her head back as she gave full rein to her laughter. Luke knelt beside the toilet bowl, watching her, unable to stop joining in as the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him. She leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor as she clutched her stomach, trying to control her laughter.

“Oh God, it hurts when I laugh,” she sobbed, still giggling uncontrollably.

“Maggie?” Doyle appeared around the doorway, a confused look on his handsome face as he watched the two of them, sitting on the floor and sniggering. They looked up at him, his expression adding fuel to their laughter.

Luke wiped his eyes with one hand as he staggered to his feet. He stepped towards her, reaching out to offer her his hand to help her stand. She accepted his help easily, leaning on him as she stood, her other arm still wrapped around her aching stomach.

Bodie appeared behind Doyle, frowning at the scene. It was easily the last thing he'd expected to see. Maggie returned to sober seriousness at the expression on the two CI5 men's faces.

“Have you got something?” she asked, a note of desperation in her voice. “Is Macklin okay?” A flash of fear replaced the amusement in her face, and her grip on Luke's hand tightened.

Doyle held out his hands reassuringly. “Macklin's fine, as far as we know,” he said quickly, anxious to calm her down. He had never seen her laughing so easily before, and he wasn't sure whether she was close to hysteria.

“Macklin's fine,” Luke said, repeating Doyle's words. “He's stretched out on his bed, and hasn't moved since Willis left him.”

Maggie seemed to relax at the news. To add to Doyle's confusion, it appeared that Luke's assurance had calmed her more than his own. She released her hold on Luke and stepped away from him, returning to the usual distance between them.

“I've got Reynolds' autopsy,” Luke continued. His dark blue eyes had lost their laughter. “Willis has been through it. It's incomplete.”

Maggie turned to him, a look of horror on her face. “Why?”

Doyle shot Luke an angry look. “Cowley's requested the full report,” he said. He nodded to Maggie, deliberately softening his voice as he smiled at her. “Go and get dressed, then we'll show you what we've got.”

Maggie disappeared to her room, leaving the three men. Doyle jerked his head, indicating Luke to follow them into the lounge. Luke's eyes narrowed, taking in the irritation apparent in Doyle, but he walked through to the lounge, the two CI5 men following him.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Doyle rounded on him angrily. “Watch your bloody mouth!” he snarled. “The last thing she needs to hear is how Willis is loading the dice against Macklin.”

Luke squared up to Doyle, his temper flaring to match. “Do you think it's better to let her imagine what's going on?” he snapped back.

“What the hell do you know about her?” Doyle argued, automatically assuming a protective stance about Maggie. He had seen her devastated by thinking she'd lost Macklin before; he had no desire to let her face that desolation alone again.

Luke's eyes opened wide in mock-amazement. “Oh, I'm sorry. We're not talking about the Magpie, then? Someone who's probably kicked your arse on more than one occasion? Or do we assume that Macklin would shack up with a nervous wreck? A damsel in distress?”

Bodie stepped forward, ready to separate the two men if necessary. “It's not that simple, Peterson,” he said quietly. “No-one's disputing Maggie's tough. But she goes a bit insane if someone threatens Macklin.”

“That's enough, Bodie,” Doyle growled. “He doesn't need to know that.”

“You think I don't know?” Luke glared. “I've got eyes – I saw them. It tore her apart when he walked away.”

Doyle gave an angry sigh. “Yeah? You didn't have to sit in the car with Macklin. It didn't do him any good either.”

“She needs the truth, Doyle,” Luke insisted. “She bloody deserves the truth, don't you think?”

“If she doesn't get it, she's likely to get unpleasant.” Her deceptively calm voice came from the door. The three men turned to her. Doyle took one look at the cold expression on her face and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. It was instinctive to protect her, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't need it. She didn't need anything except Macklin. And perhaps, only Macklin was allowed to protect her.

“Have you quite finished deciding what I should or should not be told?” Her voice was like ice.

Doyle took a step towards her, but it was Luke who spoke first. “He's just worried about you,” he offered in Doyle's defence, although his indigo eyes still flashed angrily as he glared at Doyle. “He doesn't want me to tell you anything that isn't definite.”

She stepped in front of Doyle. Her gaze swept over him from head to foot in appraisal. “Have I ever struck you as the sort of person who needs wrapping in cotton wool?”

“Maggie.” Doyle sighed, reining in his temper, knowing she was goading him into a fight so she could let off steam. He knew the signs, he'd seen it enough times in the past when they were together. She never seemed to realise she was doing it. He'd wondered how other boyfriends had coped, not knowing her history or her true identity. It wasn't difficult to see why her relationships had always been such miserable failures. It hadn't just been the problems she had maintaining the false identities she'd assumed; Maggie could, quite simply, be hard work.

And yet, he remembered fondly, it had been strangely worth it, if only for a short time. And obviously, Macklin had the knack of dealing with her; something that obviously worked both ways. Macklin didn't strike Doyle as the kind of man who would be satisfied with a safe option.

A matched pair, he thought ruefully.

“Sorry,” he offered at last, his wide green eyes candid. “It wasn't that.” He gestured around helplessly. “I just don't want him telling you stuff we don't know for a fact.”

She stared at him, assessing him with cold violet eyes. Finally, she nodded. “Fair enough.” She brushed past him, assuming the same position in between the two settees she had taken earlier in the day. Clearly she still did not trust them to be unobserved.

Luke ran his fingers through his cropped hair, settling the unruly strands into some semblance of order, as he took his seat. He reached for the folder Palmer had left on the glass coffee table.

“So tell me what you've got,” he said brusquely.

Bodie and Doyle sat opposite him, spreading their own photographs across the table. Luke's dark blue eyes scanned them almost hungrily. He reached out quickly. “I haven't got these,” he said, reaching for two of the pictures. He sat back against the sofa, holding both pictures in front of him.

“What's the autopsy say?” he asked.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look, taken aback by the brusque professional manner. Doyle reached for the report and scanned it quickly. “Most of it's been blacked out,” he said. “All Cowley got were edited highlights. Estimated time of death, supposed method of death.”

“What's missing?” Maggie asked.

Luke looked up quickly, looking across at the two CI5 men with a strangely bright look in his eyes. “That's true,” he said, as though answering a comment she had made. “What's been left out might give us an idea where to look. Or what's missing.”

Bodie sighed and leaned forward to scan the document. “Like a cryptic crossword,” he said.

“Estimated time of death, 8pm, give or take 30 minutes,” Doyle read from their notes.

“Excluded from Willis' report,” Bodie announced.

“Why didn't he want me to know that?” Luke said, giving voice to the thoughts going through his mind.

“Then these photos,” Luke continued, in an almost daydream voice. A frown creased his handsome features, a line forming between his eyes. “If this was taken almost two hours after the murder -” he said slowly.

“Where's the blood?” Bodie finished.

Luke looked up quickly, the frown disappearing. “Yes,” he agreed. “Where is it?”

It was Maggie's turn to frown. “Let me see.” Luke handed the one picture over to her while he concentrated on the other. She took it from him, looking at it from one angle, before turning it around and viewing it again.

“I thought he'd been stabbed through the heart?” she said. Doyle looked up, seeing the two dark heads bent over the photographs, the same slightly cold, detached look in the matching violet eyes.

“Supposed to have been,” Luke agreed.

She pointed at the picture. “This is a post mortem injury,” she said with certainty.

“Then what's the cause of death?” Doyle asked sharply, finding something disturbing in the matched pair sitting in front of him.

Two pairs of violet eyes looked up at him sharply. “We can hardly tell that from a photograph,” Maggie said, her reasonable tone of voice a stark contrast to Doyle's curt question.

“At least half of the agents on that training had records for excessive violence in questioning suspects,” Bodie said.

Doyle closed his eyes, running his fingers through his dark curls distractedly. “Nice one, Bodie,” he muttered.

“No-one's going to dare to put a finger on Macklin or Towser,” Luke said firmly.

“You sure about that?” Bodie asked, ignoring the warning look from Doyle.

“While there's a chance of them being proved innocent, yes,” Luke replied easily. “Who's going to risk pissing either of them off when they might get their hands on you some time in the next six months?”

“If anyone touches Macklin,” Maggie started.

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke interrupted wearily. “You'll kill them.”

Maggie turned a wide eyed look of innocence to him. “Oh no,” she replied. “Not me. Brian will rip them apart.” She stared down at the floor, her expression immediately forlorn and depressed. “And then Willis really will be able to do him for murder, won't he?” she added sadly.

Luke stared at her, amazed by the complete shut down in her again. He blinked slowly. “What do you want?” he asked them softly.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks. “Reynolds' personnel file,” Doyle said at last. “Someone wanted him dead, and we need to know why.”

Luke closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I've been looking at nothing else for 24 hours,” he said wearily.

“Then why did he request a transfer?” Bodie asked.

Luke frowned, anger flashing suddenly in his dark blue eyes. “He what?”

“Requested a transfer,” Bodie repeated. “Seems he didn't like the methods his colleagues used to get information.”

Luke stood up quickly, his agitation apparent. He rested one hand on a lean hip as he dragged his fingers through his hair, pacing the room angrily. “Fucking bastard,” he hissed. “Bastard!” He turned back to them, his face pale with temper. “Not in my fucking report,” he growled. He breathed heavily, trying to regain his self-control. “My hands are bloody tied. Every direction I go, the bastard is only leaving me what he wants me to see.” He strode across the room, grabbing another file from the sideboard, stalking back to throw it across the table towards them. “Do you know what's in there?” he demanded. “Fuck all, that's what. Just stiletto blade, dead an hour before he was found, and the room backs onto the assault course on one side and rifle ranges the other. The only reason they haven't got me checking Macklin and Towser out for bruising caused by clambering through the window is because it's bloody obvious neither one could have fitted through.”

“Why does Willis need it to be Macklin or Towser?” Doyle asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Luke replied angrily. He paused, his lips pressed together firmly as he stared up at the ceiling, both hands resting on his hips as he pulled his temper back under control. “Because it can't be Six,” he said at last, superficial calmness in his voice. “Because his men have to be above reproach.”

“Even you?” Doyle couldn't resist the snide attack.

Luke's head lowered quickly to glare at him as he took a step closer. The muscles in his sleek torso and arms tightened, his hands curling into fists, and for a split second, Doyle thought he would have to defend himself. Then Luke let out a long breath, his muscles relaxing slowly as he stared at the floor.

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he replied, his voice quiet after his frustrated outburst. He raised his head, and his eyes glittered angrily. “But what about you and the Coogan affair, Doyle? And what about Krivas, Bodie?” The cold voice carried softly in the room. “If you want to start flinging stones around the glass house, that's fine with me, but it's not going to solve this problem. You want to settle scores?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Fine. We get this sorted, and whatever it takes to get you off my back, we'll do. But let's get Reynolds' murderer first.”

Maggie moved, the soft sound breaking the silence after Luke's speech. “Surely the privilege of holding a grudge against Luke belongs to me?” she asked quietly. She waited until she had the attention of all three men. Despite the teasing words, there was a deadly look in her violet eyes. “So I'll thank you to stop making digs at my brother's expense, Ray Doyle, else I'll start talking about your little foibles.”

Bodie suppressed a laugh, his face splitting into a school-boy grin as Doyle looked abashed. “Yeah, Ray,” Bodie teased. “Stop picking on her little brother.”

Doyle couldn't hold back the grin, his chipped tooth glinting. He had to admit, looking at the two of them now, both raven haired, both pale with finely structured features and the luminous dark blue eyes with amethyst flashes, it would be impossible to not see the relationship.

“We need Reynolds' records,” Luke said.

“Cowley's after them,” Doyle replied. “And a full autopsy.”

Luke nodded, his lips pursed in thought. “Get toxicology,” he said quietly.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look. “The hip flask,” Bodie breathed.

Luke frowned. “What?”

“Hip flask,” Maggie repeated. “Reynolds is holding one in this picture.” She slid the photograph across the glass table towards Luke. “What about it?”

“It's missing from the report,” Doyle replied. “No mention of it in the items recovered from the room.”

Luke sighed heavily, turning to stare out of the windows into the dark city beyond. “My hands are tied,” he said quietly. “I can't go to Willis with any of these doubts until there's evidence.”

Doyle stood up angrily. “But there's doubt! There's more than reasonable doubt!” he insisted.

Luke turned back, his handsome face hard. He folded his muscled arms across his bare chest. “And if I mention any of these doubts to Willis, what do you think will happen to any evidence that would prove it?” He shook his head firmly. “No – it has to be water-tight before I take it to Willis. Unshakeable. And Cowley will need to make sure it's made public so Willis can't cover it all up.”

“Even if it means pinning it on one of your own?” Bodie asked, his lazy drawl holding a tinge of disbelief.

Luke glared at him. “I'm not pinning anything on anyone,” he growled. “I want the truth.”

“I want Macklin back.” Maggie's quiet voice, flat and desolate, cut through the discussion. She sat on the floor, her knees drawn up.

Doyle sighed and crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. He took in the arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, and the pale face, drawn and pinched with pain. He resisted the temptation to reach out, to touch her, pull her into his embrace.

“We'll get him, Maggie,” he whispered softly, all the reassurance and promise he could muster put into his words.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall, welcoming the pain in her abdomen. It echoed the ache in her chest.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Towser paced the room methodically. Every minute, the walls seemed to inch closer and closer around him. Counting his steps deliberately in his mind, he tried to prove to himself that the room was actually the same size it had always been. But although the number of steps remained constant, the hammering of his heart grew louder as each minute passed.

He paused in the middle of the room, taking a deep breath, raising his head to the ceiling. He closed his eyes, imagining the sky above him, remembering the feel of a breeze on his skin. He released the air from his lungs slowly, drawing in another breath only when he had squeezed the final gasp from his chest.

Willis had questioned him for hours, and the man's growing agitation proved that Towser had failed to give him anything he wanted to hear. Towser hid a smile at the memory. Did Willis really expect to intimidate him?

But then, this was MI6. They didn't need to charge them within 48 hours. They didn't have to answer any writ of habeas corpus. They could simply deny all knowledge. If it hadn't been for Cowley's assurances, Towser wouldn't be here. He'd put his faith in George Cowley and CI5 to clear his name, just as Macklin had.

Towser took another deep breath, counting slow seconds as he breathed in and out. He had to stay calm, had to trust that it would all be over soon. He had to remember that he wasn't alone; somewhere in this building, Brian Macklin would be in a similar room, with similar thoughts.

Willis had wanted to know about Maggie, but Towser wouldn't tell him anything. Nothing but the official version. Not that there was much more he could add to that. He knew her previous career; he knew there was a long history between her and Macklin. They had never actually come straight out and told him they were involved with each other, but working with them, day in-day out, it became impossible not to notice how their eyes followed each other, how they were constantly aware of the other's presence and position, how they arrived and left together. It wasn't that they actually hid it; it was simply something they never felt the need to mention. And he couldn't blame them.

Willis seemed eager to pin the murder on Macklin or Maggie, or both; eager to use either as motive or murderer. And Willis had capitalised on the fact that that neat little scenario left Towser in the clear, if only Towser would give him the motive he needed. If only Willis could find that one missing piece, one hint of discord, he would fashion his own version of events that fit all the available pieces. Or rather, the pieces that Willis wished to acknowledge.

If he wanted to be free, all Towser had to do was give Willis something to work with. Anything. It didn't even have to be true.

Without warning, the lights went out. Towser opened his eyes to velvet darkness, and the walls began to close again.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin stared at the ceiling, as he had for long hours since Willis had finally left him. Willis was grasping at straws, desperate for anything he could use to fabricate his own version of events. But in questioning him, Willis had given away far more than he realised.

Macklin considered the eight men they had trained over the last four days. Unexceptional by Secret Service standards, they had gone through the series of standard tests, performing to reasonable expectations but no more.

One of them had murdered Reynolds, of that Macklin was certain.

The real questions were – how, and why? And he had no way of answering those while he lay here. Willis hadn't even told him how Reynolds had died. Or who had found him. Instead, it had been a relentless barrage of questions – where had he been, where had Maggie been, through every second of the day, just waiting for one tiny error to rip his whole testimony apart. It wasn't clever or devious. It was simply trying to wear him down, to tire him into making a mistake.

And now, this was leaving him alone with his thoughts; to consider what Willis had said, to allow him to brood on what might happen. And to allow him to forget the responses he had been giving and therefore try to trick him into a mistake when questioning continued.

And while he was waiting, lying back biding his time and practising his patience, CI5 had a finite amount of time to find the truth. Because Macklin was under no illusions; some time in the next 48 hours, Willis would lose his patience, and the gloves would come off.

Macklin didn't know how that would affect him. Already, he felt the beginnings of panic stirring in his gut. He had been imprisoned, questioned and tortured. However strong a man was, there was always a breaking point, and Macklin had met his. It had left him battered, scarred, and almost dead, but he had fought back. The problem was, fighting his way from that private hell had been a one way trip. He couldn't go back, and he didn't know if he had the strength to fight that battle again.

He had one consolation. Maggie was out of it. However dangerous his position here was, it wasn't anywhere near what it could be if Willis had Maggie in custody. Her story would never hold up to the scrutiny of Willis. He'd rip it apart within a day if he got his hands on it. However, no records existed. Everything about Magpie was speculation, and everything about Maggie was fabrication. All they had to do was keep Willis away from her. If he had the excuse of having her in custody to start checking her story, Macklin knew Willis would start to see the holes.

There was nothing linking her to Luke Peterson. Macklin still ached at the thought of leaving her with her half-brother. He had known whose son Peterson was throughout his career, but no-one had ever made the connection between his mother and Maggie. It was still the closest thing to an argument he had ever had with George Cowley. It had almost ended a friendship that had spanned over twenty years. But even so, deep down, Macklin could never shake the feeling that somehow Maggie had been let down – by Cowley, by Doyle, and even by him. When she had needed him the most, he had failed her. It had left her scarred and battered, but it had also brought her back to him.

He could still remember the moment when Cowley had finally told him what had happened to her, how her own mother had conspired with others to hound her, harass her, run her into the ground, before abducting her, torturing her, and almost killing her. He remembered the cold anger that had flooded him, the way his gut had twisted at the revelation.

She never knew how he had visited the hospital that night; how he had watched through the open doorway as Doyle sat in silent vigil over her. He had turned away at the sight of the younger man, at the intimate way Doyle had stroked her hand as it lay on top of the sheets. Even after fourteen years, he had still felt the familiar pull towards her, the old longings in his breast. If he had thought they might have faded over the years, one look at her confirmed otherwise.

 _“It's not over, Brian,” Cowley had said, talking in the hospital corridor around the corner from the room where Maggie slept and Doyle waited._

 _“Doyle's with her,” Macklin replied, his voice flat, his steel-blue eyes emotionless._

 _“Perhaps. For now,” Cowley agreed. “Who knows? But she needs something, Brian. Some way to be Maggie and Magpie. She's tried being one or the other, and this is the result. It's almost killed her.”_

 _“You should never have let her exchange herself for Bodie,” Macklin snarled._

 _Cowley had the grace to look abashed. “Aye, it doesn't sit well with the ideals of chivalry, does it?” he agreed. “But believe me, Brian.” The grey eyes were candid. “I had no idea it would end like this. And it could have ended much worse.”_

 _“And Peterson?”_

 _Cowley pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He could prove useful still. He has no idea Maggie is his sister.”_

 _“You'll tell him?”_

 _Cowley nodded. “Aye. He has a right to know.”_

 _“You'll tell him all of it?” Macklin insisted._

 _Cowley eyed him cautiously. “He should know why she killed his father.”_

 _Macklin shook his head slowly. “That's not what I meant, George,” he said, a warning note in the clipped, precise voice. “I saw the pages you removed from the autopsy. And I know Peterson's medical records. You can pull the wool over their eyes, George, but you and I both know, there's more than just a mother those two share.”_

 _Cowley paled. “She can never know,” he said quickly, his voice dropping to a whisper._

 _“She never will,” Macklin agreed. “Give her back to me, George. I put her back together once. I can do it again.”_

 _Cowley considered him carefully. “And Doyle?”_

 _Macklin straightened, his blue eyes hard and unyielding. “If Doyle is what Maggie wants,” he said firmly. “Then so be it. I can live with that.”_

 _Cowley nodded slowly, seeing the determination in the man standing before him. “I'll ask her,” he agreed. “She's too valuable an asset to be wasted, locking herself away in the Lake District. And she needs something to stimulate her senses.”_

 _Macklin smiled. “I'm sure she'll find it most stimulating,” he said with wry amusement._

And just like that, he had her back. He had watched her grow stronger, physically and mentally, day by day. Watched as Doyle threw away any chance he had with her, living his life in the moment, grabbing every experience as they appeared. He had waited, half-expecting her to disappear as she had before as soon as there was no Doyle to keep her within the new security he'd given her. And his amazement – his sheer, glorious, pleasure – to realise that the only thing she'd ever needed had been the one thing he'd been too afraid to give her.

The lights suddenly went out, leaving him surrounded by darkness, and thoughts of her. He only hoped CI5 worked quickly, that Peterson was true to his word, and that being left with her brother didn't resurrect the old demons inside her.

Yes, Macklin had known who Luke Peterson was; and when the truth about their mother had emerged, he had known the truth about their father as well – something not even they knew. Something they could never know. That simple fact had spared Luke the harsher side of Macklin's temper. Because Macklin found he couldn't blame Luke; not when Maggie's eyes looked back at him from Luke's face, and when her grim determination was unconsciously mirrored by her brother. Her brother – not her half-brother.

Luke had been a victim of his parents just as much as Maggie had. Martin Peterson had tried to destroy part of his son just as he had Maggie. And Abigail had tried to destroy her daughter, using her own son as a weapon. Macklin found he couldn't quite blame Luke for the sins of his parents.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke checked his tie, smoothing the fabric down against the clean cotton of the shirt, before running his fingers through his hair once more to settle it into some semblance of order.

Satisfied, he turned to the figure sat huddled on the floor. He frowned. “Are you okay?” he asked at last, not sure what answer he expected, or how to respond in any event.

“Fine.” The flat, emotionless tone gave nothing away.

He crouched down to her level, reaching to lift the bottle of whisky to the light and check what remained. He turned his gaze back to her. “With how much of this you've put away, you should be fine,” he said softly. She didn't react to his jibe. He watched her carefully. “You know it doesn't help,” he said.

“Course it doesn't,” she agreed, a harsh note creeping into her voice. “It just gives me something to do.”

“You do this often? Sit in the dark and demolish bottles of whiskey you don't even like?”

She turned to look at him, and superficially, there didn't appear to be anything in the cold expression that belied intoxication. But there was a brittle quality to her look, her eyes glittering in a not quite sober way. “Not as often as I used to,” she admitted darkly.

“And why's that?” He knew he was pushing, but something told him he had to break through this shell of nothingness. This was as close to vulnerable as she appeared to get. Somewhere beneath the apathy was a woman capable of planning some of the most audacious assassinations of the past fifteen years. Somewhere, there was a woman able to call on the not inconsiderable powers of George Cowley and CI5. And Bodie and Doyle liked her, he could tell that. More than that, Brian Macklin loved her. It would take more than borderline alcoholic with an anti-social personality disorder to do any of that.

She blinked slowly, her eyes dulling as the alcohol defeated her self-control. “I don't always sleep very well,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a slurred whisper. Her gaze sharpened quickly. “Not for any reason you might think,” she snapped, glaring at him. The sudden burst of irritation drained from her, her weariness unable to maintain even the semblance of anger for long. “It's just -” Her voice faded, as she gazed into the darkness, her eyes sliding into an unfocused daze. “I remember,” she finished softly. “I remember things I shouldn't.”

“Like what?” He didn't really want to know, but if telling him drew her out of this deep depression, if sharing made it bearable, even if only for a short while, he would bear it.

“Things,” she breathed gently, the word dragged out long and sibilant. She focused on him again with greater difficulty than before. “Just because I was good at it didn't mean I enjoyed it,” she said carefully. “Concentrating on it – on doing the job, whatever it was – it just meant I didn't have to think about -” she paused, suddenly stopping herself. A frown flitted across her face. “Things,” she finished at last, her voice falling into the same soft susurrant tone.

He felt a chill as he realised what 'things' she would not want to remember. The sort of 'things' that led a young woman to murder just to keep the memories from her mind.

“I never remember when he's around,” she continued in a vague voice, and Luke realised she wasn't even aware who she was speaking to or what she was saying. “Or at least, they don't seem so important.” She frowned briefly, leaning her head back against the wall wearily. “No-one else ever made it so easy to forget,” she whispered. “I don't know why that is.”

He reached out slowly and stroked the stray strands of hair from her face. She moved slightly but gave no sign she recognised him. “Well,” Luke said with a ghost of a smile as he hooked the errant locks behind her ear gently. “Brian Macklin's enough to scare anything away.”

He watched as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth briefly before dissolving into another frown. She opened her eyes, the violet depths hazy and full of pain. “He can't stay there for long,” she said, her voice growing stronger as her distress took hold.

“He'll be fine,” he reassured her.

She reached out and took his hand, surprising him at her willingness to touch. She gripped his fingers hard. “You don't understand,” she said firmly. She paused, suspicion suddenly entering her look. She released his hand abruptly.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to restore the previous fragile truce.

She shook her head. “Can't tell you. Can't tell anyone.”

Luke paused, watching her carefully, as various memories connected in his mind. “Magpie,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. “If there's something about Macklin or Towser I need to know, you should tell me,” he prompted.

She shook her head slowly and firmly. “No,” she said. Her dazed eyes became clearer as she fought off the drugging affects of the alcohol. “Not my story to tell,” she said, determination in her voice.

“Towser's pacing his cell,” Luke said. “That's agitation, and he knows better than to show it. So what's going on?”

She frowned. “I can't tell you,” she whispered.

He fought the urge to argue with her. “Look,” he began.

“I can't,” she repeated, her voice louder. A look of desperation crossed her face. “I'm sorry,” she said earnestly. “I am. Very sorry. But I can't.”

Luke paused, taking a deep breath before releasing it in a gusting sigh. “If he's showing signs of tension, it'll give Willis something to work on,” he continued relentlessly. “You have to tell me. Else I can't help.”

She stared at him, anguish and confusion in her face. He knew she didn't want to trust him, and he found a strange comfort that she was so unwilling to break faith with Towser. It showed a more human side to someone he had learned to think of as an unfeeling killer. She couldn't show such consideration for Towser and still be the heartless murderer of his father. She couldn't be so devastated by the separation from Macklin and be the cold hearted psychopath Magpie was reputed to be.

“Please,” he pushed gently.

She sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall. “Don't put him in the dark,” she said quietly. “Give him a room with windows. He needs to see outside.”

He frowned in amazement. “Towser is claustrophobic?” he asked, unable to keep the shock from his voice.

She glared at him and reached for the bottle of whisky he still held in one hand. There was no apology in her eyes as she took a drink straight from the bottle. “Don't be so quick to judge,” she snapped defensively. She took another pull on the bottle, her furious look losing none of its belligerence. “You don't know what it was like,” she added. “You agents now. You're on assignment for – what? Six months? Two years?” She shook her head. “Not years ago. Years ago, they'd never heard of Post Traumatic Stress. Fifteen years Macklin headed a special unit in Hong Kong. Fifteen years. And he didn't break,” she said, her voice stronger. There was a burning look of pride in her eyes. “He never broke,” she repeated adamantly. The determined look faded, replaced by sadness, as memories resurfaced. “No,” she whispered. “They broke him.” She raised her eyes to his, fierce and burning. “And he's still stronger than the rest of you,” she said, complete belief in her expression and voice. “Fifteen years,” she repeated. “It's just he's not as strong as he used to be,” she added, her face twisting with sorrow. She was tired, and the alcohol made her weariness worse. She couldn't maintain her anger, he noticed. Her temper would flare and burn out within seconds. He found himself hoping she would at least pass out drunk and thereby get some rest. He couldn't help thinking she would burn herself out, tear herself apart from the inside, if she continued to dwell on her thoughts.

“And Towser,” she continued, in a tired, sing-song voice. “Three years in the SAS. I don't know how many tours of duty in Northern Ireland. And then the Provos caught him. Locked him up for nigh on two weeks, for questioning. And torture.” A hardness entered her voice again. “And do you know where they locked him up?” she asked angrily. She glared at him as he shook his head slowly. “No, you wouldn't,” she slurred, her voice dropping in volume again. “A funeral parlour,” she said at last. “They operated out of a funeral parlour. For about 18 hours of the day, for just over two weeks, Towser was locked up in a coffin. And they kept threatening to bury him alive. Three times, they pretended they were going to do just that. They'd lift the coffin, with him in it, move it around, load it into the back of the hearse so he could hear the engines. Then they'd take it somewhere and throw dirt on the top.”

Luke put his head in his hands as his imagination provided the details. Burial alive. It was the ultimate nightmare for anyone. To go through that staged mental torture three times. To endure it for so long. It made him cold to think about it.

He started, startled, as he felt her hands on his, pulling his hands free from his face so she could stare into his eyes, leaning forward to fix him with a glassy look. “So don't go thinking Towser's weak just because he's claustrophobic,” she said firmly. “He's stronger than you, stronger than any of your lot. Because after what he went through, he's bloody entitled to some respect, whether he's scared of the dark or not.”

Luke nodded slowly. “I'll move him,” he whispered. “I'll do whatever I can,” he said, staring at her, trying to convince her of his honesty. “I promise you, Maggie.”

She stared at him in silence, before giving a soft bark of laughter and pulling away from him. “You've never called me Maggie before,” she said quietly.

“Would you rather I didn't?”

She closed her eyes wearily, leaning back against the wall once more. “I don't mind,” she said softly, all her fire and energy draining from her completely. “Nothing you call me matters.” Her harsh words contrasted with the quiet voice.

He stood up, straightening the line of his jacket once more as he stared down at her. “I'll do whatever I can,” he repeated. “And I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“I won't wait up,” she slurred, her eyes staying closed.

He shook his head, pausing on his way out the door to pick up his keys, before closing the door quietly behind him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Doyle stirred restlessly in his bed. He could hear the rattling of heavy raindrops battering against his windows, almost sharp enough to be hailstones. He turned onto his back with a sigh of frustration. His bedroom was warm, allowing him the luxury of sleeping sprawled across the large bed rather than huddled up under the covers. He raised his arms over his head, idly tracing the iron bedstead with his fingers. The sheet was pushed down to his waist allowing the cool night air to caress his naked chest.

He glanced at the clock beside the bed. 1.20. In less than six hours, Bodie would be outside, revving the engine and annoying the neighbours.

So much had happened in 24 hours. It felt as though more than a day had passed since he’d pulled up outside Maggie and Macklin's Kensington home in the dull grey light of dawn. He turned onto his side, watching the steady pulse of the digital display tick through in slow seconds.

It took barely thirty of those seconds before Doyle grew impatient, throwing back the covers and getting out of bed with a long, drawn out sigh. He drew back the curtain and looked out over the twinkling city lights. Rain streaked the window pane, making the white and amber spots smear and warp. He stared out, keen green eyes sharp and alert, although not concentrating on the darkness beyond the glass. Instead, he was thinking of death and murder, jealousy and rage. All the dark, wild emotions that seemed to belong to the night.

Why stab someone who was already dead? It didn't make sense. They were still waiting on the thorough autopsy, with an independent coroner. Cowley had been insistent; there was to be no stone unturned. Willis' tame doctor had been dispensed with; now it was time to get the full story. And Cowley was adamant that nothing less would be acceptable. All they had to go on was Bodie's expert eye, although that was enough for Doyle. If anyone knew what a stab wound through the heart looked like, it was his partner.

Even Peterson had agreed; there wasn't enough blood. Maggie had said the same – another one who Doyle would bet was in a position to know from experience. The wound to the heart was post mortem. Whatever had killed Reynolds had done it before that stab wound.

But why? Why kill someone twice? To make sure? But then, if the blood loss was restricted due to Reynolds already being dead, why bother stabbing him? Whenever he was stabbed, it wasn't immediately after what had killed him. He had to have been given time for the heart to stop beating.

So – what had killed him if not the stiletto? Peterson's idea of the toxicology report had met with approval from both Bodie and Doyle. The missing hip flask was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Where had it gone? Where was the stiletto? Because, as mystifying as the stab wound was, nevertheless it existed. Something had to have stabbed him, around an hour after he had already died from whatever methods.

Questions, questions, questions.... they swam around Ray Doyle's head, and he couldn't find the answers, not staring out in the dark winter night. But he wouldn't find rest without something.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the jumbles of who, why, how, when. He took a deep breath, holding it while he counted strong steady heartbeats, then releasing it slowly. He opened his eyes again, and began with the basics.

The hip flask – toxicology would show whether Reynolds had been poisoned, and hopefully, what with. That would explain the missing hip flask. The murderer had removed it after the event, but not before the scene of crimes photographs had been taken.

Doyle blinked. Sloppy, that. Should have been removed before.

So – if poisoned, why stabbed? A random thought entered his mind – a comment Maggie had made, about the stiletto. She had used one through someone's temple, then obscured the injury with a bullet. So – misdirection. Poison Reynolds, and then stab him to make it appear that he'd been murdered by other means. But why?

To cast doubt on someone else.

Doyle stirred, his thoughts suddenly flying as he jumped from one stepping stone to another.

So – if – _if …..._ Reynolds was poisoned, it had to be about an hour before the body was found. He was then stabbed immediately, to provide a cause of death that would make anyone looking for the easy solution not look past the obvious. That meant one of the two men – Morris and Hughes, his memory provided – had to have administered the stab wound.

But that didn't necessarily mean they had killed him. Accessory after the fact, perhaps.

 _Accessory after the fact....._

Doyle leaned his head back against the wall, a groan escaping his lips. Someone gave Reynolds the hip flask. Someone – Morris or Hughes – stabbed Reynolds through the heart. Someone removed the hip flask after scene of crimes had been through. Three possible 'someones'.

It only needed two to be a conspiracy.

And they had seven MI6 men to chose from.

A conspiracy then, he thought with a sigh. A minimum of two, a maximum of seven. Covering for each other, hiding evidence, lying. Leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for Willis to follow, straight to Brian Macklin.

And why Macklin?

Because Willis wouldn't want to look further than Macklin. Because Willis would be beside himself with joy at the opportunity to tear down Cowley's blue-eyed Untouchable. Because, although Macklin had worked for just about every Secret Service agency Her Majesty employed, he was, above all that, Cowley's friend.

Willis would jump at the chance. He wouldn't be able to resist.

The murderers were giving Willis exactly what he wanted, and in return, they were getting away with – well – murder.

And it wasn't even as though Willis had to have anything to do with Reynolds' murder. For all Doyle knew, he was as innocent as Macklin. It was just he wanted it to be Macklin. Or Maggie. He needed it to be them. Which meant he was playing right into the murderers' hands.

Peterson had been right; they had to present Willis with the whole case, water-tight and perfect. Because if it was anything less, he would make sure the dice were loaded in his favour.

Doyle padded through to his lounge, turned on the tall standard lamp, and sat underneath the amber glow, notepad in hand as he listed the possibilities with grim determination.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke swept through the corridors of Century House with far more confidence than he felt. Palmer met him half way along the corridor past his own office. Luke gave a brief nod of acknowledgement as Palmer fell into step alongside him.

“What have we got?” Luke asked, noticing the buff folder clutched in Palmer's hand.

“Nothing much,” Palmer admitted, pushing his glasses further up his nose distractedly. “Lights went out a couple of hours ago, and Macklin seems to be asleep. Towser's more restless.”

“And what about Reynolds? What about the actual murder?” Luke growled with heavy sarcasm. “Or have we stopped investigating that and just turned to trying to dig up mud on innocent men?”

“Thought you told me to keep that to myself,” Palmer muttered with a half smile.

Luke turned to glance at him, never pausing in his long, easy stride, and flashed a brief smile. “Ah yes, but you told me, didn't you?” he replied quietly. “That makes us co-conspirators.”

“Willis wants it to be Macklin,” Palmer continued in the same soft voice, meant for Luke's ears alone.

“Willis will end up looking like a fool if he persists,” Luke replied. “We can't afford that.” He didn't give a damn about Willis' reputation, but let that stand as a good excuse as any.

Palmer followed after Luke through the labyrinthine corridors. “The interrogation rooms on the 8th floor,” Luke continued. “I want one room set aside and Towser moved there.”

“Towser? Why?”

Luke paused outside the lift. “I want them on separate floors,” he said, without a flicker of emotion. Palmer may have voiced his doubts about Willis' plan, but Luke didn't trust that to make him any kind of ally. “CI5 are going to want to check on both of them soon, to make sure we're treating them properly.” And if they didn't ask, Luke would make sure they did, just to provide the necessary cover for what he had planned. “I want them nowhere near each other.”

“You think CI5 will try to get them out?” Palmer frowned doubtfully.

Luke gave a wry smile. “Wouldn't put anything past those sneaky bastards,” he said conspiratorially. “I doubt it,” he added truthfully. “But I'm not taking any chances.”

Palmer nodded. “I'll get the rooms ready.”

Luke nodded. “I'm just checking on Macklin, then I'll bring Towser up.”

“You need a guard?”

Luke gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh come on, John,” he said with a smile. “They handed themselves in. They're hardly going to make a break for it now.”

The lift doors closed on Palmer, and Luke continued on his way.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 _Macklin dreamed....._

His slow steady breathing hitched, a slight pause, before continuing, shallow and light. A line appeared between the sandy eyebrows, drawing them close together as he flinched. The same pause in his breath, catching in his throat, as his lips pulled back slightly from his teeth.

 _Dark.... cold and dark.... the sound of water dripping in the background. They would be back soon, with knives and electricity. Sparks would shatter the darkness, and burning pain would replace the cold. Each breath sounded like a gasp, his heartbeat sounding loud in his ears. Heartbeat or footsteps, coming closer? Slow, steady pacing drawing nearer... nearer...._

A sound escaped from his lips, a soft groan, a denial. His head pushed back further into the pillow as his body arched millimetres off the bed, a subtle muscle memory of spasms and pain.

 _Laughter, high pitched and demonic. Flashing lights. Red. Red haze of agony. The sound of his own breathing loud and heavy in his ears. He remembered hearing screaming and remembered it had been him. Voices screamed at him, but he couldn't hear the words._

Something should happen now; in the darkness, a soft voice would whisper to him, call him back. Hands would gently stroke away the pain and the cold. She would call his name. She would frighten away the evil voices and kill the cruel laughter.

But not now. Not this time. The darkness pulled him further in, back to shadows and cold, damp misery. To despair and mocking cruelty.

Macklin gasped, a soft whimper escaping from his lips as he flinched violently, his head moving to one side as though slapped by an invisible assailant. Fine trembling shook the powerful frame, making his chest shudder in shallow, rapid breaths.

 _Macklin dreamed. There was no escape._

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke watched the sleeping man through the two-way mirror as he fought demons in his sleep. The pale face showed no sign of his relief that he had dismissed the other agent set to watch over Macklin before the man had started to show signs of dreaming. He felt a stirring of pity in his breast that Brian Macklin of all people should prove to be mere mortal after all. He quelled the feeling immediately. Macklin would not appreciate pity. Instead, Luke began to understand why Maggie had been worried enough to drown herself in his whiskey. He had thought it had been selfishness on her part; that she needed Macklin to draw on his strength against her own memories. Even Bodie had said that Maggie went 'a bit insane' when she was away from Macklin. But it wasn't her demons that worried her, he realised. It was Macklin's. She worried so much because she wasn't there to protect Macklin when he was at his most vulnerable.

Luke watched as the man twisted in his sleep, his arms pinned to his sides by invisible bonds. Sweat sheened his brow, his teeth clenched firmly against the cry of anguish Luke knew was threatening to burst free. Soft, barely audible whimpers escaped instead. Luke knew that, in the privacy of his own nightmare world, Macklin was screaming.

This is what had kept Maggie steadily working her way through the bottle of Jameson's. She had never wanted anyone to see Macklin like this. He had thought it had been fear for herself, but he had been wrong. It had been fear for Macklin.

Instead, it fell to him to shield his half-sister's lover, not simply because he had earned Luke's respect through his considerable abilities and sheer professionalism, but also because it was what his sister would want. To assume the role of the protective sibling, even though he had never practiced for this part in his whole life.

He left the observation room, noting with apparent nonchalance the lack of personnel around, before making for the door to Macklin's room. He knocked loudly, allowing the man enough notice of his entrance.

Even so, he froze in the doorway as the open door revealed Macklin, crouched on the floor like a sleek leopard ready to pounce, blinking in the sudden bright light. Steel-blue eyes stared at him, hard and uncompromising, before recognition softened the edges slightly. Macklin relaxed, drawing himself upright. Luke entered the room, aware of the still dangerous, predatory look of Macklin. He closed the door behind him quietly.

Macklin stood, staring at him with the same cool, cautious regard. The silence stretched on between them, Luke having nothing to say, and Macklin waiting patiently for him to make the first move.

All Luke had wanted to do was wake Macklin from his nightmares. But he couldn't tell him that. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering exactly what Macklin knew about him.

Luke cleared his throat. He couldn't rely on his visit going unnoticed, and he had to watch his back always around Willis.

“Just a courtesy visit,” he said at last, choosing his words with care.

“Should I be honoured?”

Macklin's voice was carefully pitched just short of sarcasm. He could almost have meant what he said.

“Not especially,” Luke answered smoothly, ignoring the implied insubordination. He wasn't here to score points. He took a few slow steps into the room, his hands pushing the jacket aside as he slid his hands into his trouser pockets with his customary lazy elegance.

Macklin eyed him cautiously. He did not altogether trust Luke Peterson, despite leaving Maggie – arguably the one thing Macklin cherished in the world – in his care. Maggie was precious to him, but she wasn't defenceless. Even so, he ached to know she was coping, but he could not ask. He could not bring himself to ask a favour of Luke Peterson, and he couldn't risk blowing the man's cover either.

Instead, it was Luke who offered the reassurance, without needing to be asked. “I thought I'd let you know, Towser is being moved.”

A flash of concern and anger passed over Macklin's face. “Is he alright?” he demanded urgently.

Luke nodded quickly. “He's fine,” he assured quickly. “No, it's for security.”

Macklin frowned. “Security?”

Luke's dark blue eyes stared at him, the almost violet glance guileless and innocent. “I've had him moved to another floor,” he explained. “Rather than keep you both on the same level.”

Macklin stared unblinkingly as seconds ticked by. Finally, a subtle softening of the hard gaze told Luke he had understood. “I see,” he said. “How very efficient of you.”

Luke moved, satisfied his meaning had been clear. “I didn't want you to think there was any hidden agenda or motive,” he said smoothly. “I'm as anxious as you to find the person who killed Reynolds.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Macklin replied earnestly.

“I'll leave you to sleep. Sorry to have disturbed you.” Luke turned on his heel to leave the room, missing the quick frown to pass over Macklin's face. “I expect I'll be back in the morning.”

Macklin sat back down on the edge of the bed. “I shall look forward to it,” he replied. He heard Luke close and lock the door, before the light switched off again, plunging the room into darkness.

Macklin lay back on the bed. He knew he had been dreaming; he had anticipated this situation and surroundings would trigger more violent memories. He wondered whether Luke had woken him deliberately.

Rooms on other floors had windows, Macklin knew. He had seen some of the interrogation rooms and holding cells on the higher floors. Toughened glass, and too high for escape, the rooms enjoyed at least some daylight, some sense of the outside world and the sky. And Luke was moving Towser to one of those rooms. He could tell from the subtle nuances of the young man's words and body language.

So – Towser had, perhaps, shown cracks. Although Macklin in no way thought less of his colleague for his phobia, he knew it would have taken a lot before Towser cracked, even in these impossible circumstances. Which meant it was far more likely that Maggie had said something to Luke, which is what had brought him in.

Macklin felt a flutter of relief, of almost hope in his breast. He knew Maggie would never have betrayed a confidence unless she felt it was important, and the fact that Luke had appeared to act so quickly on her words suggested a level of understanding Macklin had never dared dream they would share. They were more alike than either of them realised, he knew. It could provoke fireworks, but it also seemed to provoke loyalty. Perhaps something good could come out of this whole sorry saga.

He settled his arms underneath his head, staring up into the velvet blackness again. He listened to the steady thump of his heart, hearing his breath soft and sighing in the darkness. Finally, he closed his eyes, calling forth memories of Maggie to lull him back to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie reached out groggily, neither knowing where she was or what time it was. Only that something should be there and wasn't. Her searching arm found only cold air, and the wrongness of it dragged her from her restless sleep. She opened her eyes blearily, and groaned. Despite her pounding headache and the disgusting taste in her mouth, she immediately remembered everything that had happened, where she was, and why she had awoken alone.

She sat up, holding her breath to keep the pain under control as her brain threatened to bleed out through her eyes. She ran a hand through her unruly hair, finding even her hair ached. She grimaced. How could she have fallen into such a self-indulgent despair? What had she hoped to achieve?

She dragged herself into the bathroom, shedding clothes along the way without stopping for thought or care. She knew she was alone, without needing to check. The apartment felt empty and hollow.

She let the water rinse away the stale smell of whiskey and sweat, closing her eyes in the spray. Feeling slightly more human, she dried herself off quickly, wrapping the towel around her as she padded back to her room to get dressed.

She felt the lure of the windows, wanting to look out over the city at night, but she knew better. She didn't want to glance at the clock. She simply wanted the hole in her life to be filled once more, the reassurance of Macklin nearby.

The thought of him, exposed and vulnerable in the lair of Willis and MI6 is what had caused her despair, she knew. And it was inexcusable. She had wallowed in self-pity like some burned out basket case. It wouldn't do. That wasn't what she was.

She had plans to make. If Cowley failed – if Willis succeeded in pinning this murder on Macklin – she would need to know what her next move would be. Because there was one thing for certain – while she would allow Macklin this time to clear his name, if the attempt failed, there was no way she was going to allow him to pay for a crime he did not commit. Honour and integrity were one thing; martyrdom was not part of the bargain.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke glanced at his watch – 4.20am. He gave a sigh, rubbing his fingertips over his tired eyes as he turned away from locking the car and strode to his home. He made sure the external door closed and locked, automatically performing his security checks, and hesitated before calling for the lift. After the day he had had, he couldn't be bothered facing the stairs to his apartment.

The lift arrived and he settled inside, closing his eyes as the doors slid shut with a sigh. Towser had shot him a wary look when he had entered the man's cell and announced he would be moved. He had followed Luke cautiously through the corridors and lift doors, before entering the interrogation room.

“I'll leave you to get comfortable,” Luke had said, ignoring the look of wide-eyed surprise on Towser's face as he stared at the windows on one side of the room almost in disbelief. When the tall black man turned to look at him, he saw the shadow of a question cross his face. Luke had looked away, leaving before he betrayed himself.

He had hesitated outside the door to Macklin's room, wanting to check on the man, but unsure whether he could find an excuse if Willis demanded an explanation. He was on shaky ground as it was with moving Towser. But the memory of Macklin's face twisted in a rictus of pain haunted him. There was no way he could face Maggie without knowing. So he had looked in on the observation room, seeing the two agents assigned to watching over the suspect and nodding approval. A quick glance had told him Macklin slept, undreaming. He had had to satisfy himself with that cursory examination.

But he had felt uneasy. One of the men watching Macklin was Lucas, one of the agents who had been on training when Reynolds had been murdered. And Luke didn't trust any of them.

The sound of the lift doors opening took him by surprise, blinking into the stark artificial lights of the hallway. His feet felt like lead, but his footsteps were surprisingly sure as he entered his apartment. The smell of fresh coffee met him, his mouth watering as the aroma piqued his tired senses.

The lights were off, but the street lights from outside provided enough illumination to see the figure stretched out, dark against the white leather of the sofa.

His keys rattled against the wood of the sideboard beside the door, and he shrugged his jacket off, wearily rolling his shoulders, feeling the tension throbbing in the tight muscles. He closed his eyes, his head dropping to his chest before he rolled it carefully and precisely, describing circles aimed at the ceiling, trying to ease the knots in his neck.

He sighed and opened his eyes, starting with surprise at the mug of coffee suddenly presented to him by the dark eyed woman who had appeared without warning. He took the drink gratefully, not caring about milk or sugar. The warmth frightened away the cold he had carried with him from outside. Not even the coffee could do anything about his tiredness.

“Towser's in a different room,” he said, drawing on the warmth of the mug in his hands. “One with a window. I looked in on Macklin as well. He's fine.”

If he was expecting gratitude, he was sorely mistaken. Instead, Maggie regarded him with cold calculating eyes. “You should get to bed. You've had four hours sleep in the last 24.”

He swallowed the warm liquid, feeling it glowing inside him. “You're no better,” he replied.

“I'm not at work.”

He gave a wry grin before taking another sip of coffee. “How's the head?”

She looked away sheepishly, returning to the sofa where she'd lain, and her own drink. “Better,” she admitted ruefully. “I'm sorry.”

He sat on the sofa opposite her, holding the mug in both hands, allowing the warmth to permeate his cold fingers. “You don't have to apologise to me,” he said.

She sat down, her elbows resting on her knees, her mug of coffee held between both hands. She rolled it between her palms, staring down into the liquid. “Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “Not just because I demolished a perfectly good bottle of Irish whiskey. Well,” she flashed him a look and a half smile. “Adequate bottle of whiskey,” she amended. The smile faded, replaced by rueful embarrassment. “I was a maudlin drunk,” she said, without a trace of excuse or guile. “And that serves no useful purpose at all. So I'm sorry.”

He placed his mug on the coffee table, his expression thoughtful and weary. “You don't have to apologise to me,” he repeated. “It's understandable.”

She gave a short snort of laughter, earning her a questioning look. “Everyone's always trying to understand me,” she said, a sharp note of annoyance entering her voice. “It becomes tedious.”

“Even Macklin?”

It was unfair, he realised, as soon as the words left his mouth. Her face tightened, a flash of pain in her eyes. He wanted to apologise, but the word froze in his throat. Too much had passed between them for a simple apology to suffice.

“Does he know who I am?” He asked the question that had been haunting him throughout the last 24 hours.

She stared at him for so long he wondered if she had heard him. Finally, she blinked slowly. “Do you mean, does he know you're my brother?” she asked carefully.

He gave a soft shake of his head. “Not just that,” he replied. “I mean, does he know all of it? Does he know how you got those scars?”

She ran her hands down her arms instinctively. The fine silvery traces could barely be seen in the half light of the apartment, but they both knew they were there. “It's not something we've spoken about much,” she admitted reluctantly. “But as he's never really asked, it's obviously something he knows.”

Luke smiled ruefully. “I'm surprised he's never ripped my head off,” he said quietly.

She tilted her head to one side, regarding him with a tinge of amusement. “You sound like Doyle.”

A slight frown creased his forehead. “Why's that?” he asked.

Her smile widened at his obvious confusion. “Don't tell me Willis' little dirt digging didn't bring to light the past history with me and Doyle?”

He closed his eyes with a groan, leaning back into the sofa. “Oh don't tell me,” he moaned. She laughed quietly as he fixed her with a wry look. “And when was this?”

Her smile faded slightly, acquiring an uncertain look as she remembered the circumstances. “It was – when he was protecting me,” she replied hesitantly. His face turned stony at the reminder. “It started then,” she continued. “Carried on after I'd recovered, just for a couple of months, before it just fizzled out.”

“Was it serious?”

She shrugged. “Never really considered whether it was serious or not,” she replied truthfully. “More it was something that happened. Felt right at the time.”

His jaw clenched as he absorbed the information. “I would have thought Bodie was more your type,” he said, attempting a light tone.

Maggie blinked in genuine surprise. “Bodie?” she said incredulously. She shook her head firmly. “No, not like that.”

“I would have thought Doyle was a bit – righteous,” he said cautiously.

She smiled. “Oh he is that,” she agreed. She gave a slight shrug. “Doyle's very hot tempered. Fiery. I think I needed all that hot blood to warm up my own.”

“I wouldn't describe Macklin as fiery,” he said carefully. He didn't know how she would react to the mention of Macklin.

Her candid gaze fixed on him. He could see the inner battle, whether to shut down and tell him nothing, or to take what pleasure she could from speaking about her lover. “You don't know him,” she replied, unable to avoid defending him against even the hint of criticism. “Doyle's all fire and ice on the surface. One minute, cool as ice, and the next – bang. Oh, very bright, and very hot,” she agreed. “Light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance. It's only once his temper has burned out that he thinks things through. Quite a volatile relationship, that was. Lots of arguments.” Her smile was more fond than regretful though.

“Macklin's different?”

Her eyes softened unintentionally. She probably wasn't even aware of the tenderness that sweetened her expression when she spoke about Macklin, Luke thought. “Very,” she agreed. “Like a blue flame on a Bunsen burner. Cold to look at, but you'd better not touch.”

“Controlled,” Luke offered, thinking of the man who had gone from dreaming sleep to poised attack in the space of a second.

She shrugged, conceding the accuracy of the word but not entirely convinced it was adequate. “Not repressed,” she added for clarification. “Bodie's the one who saves up all his emotions until they explode. No. Macklin's not like that.”

“And neither are you,” Luke ventured. “I thought you'd be tearing strips out of me for what I did to you.”

She blinked, genuine surprise on her face. “Me?” she said at last. She shook her head, a sad look on her face. “Oh no, Luke,” she said softly. “I'm lots of things, but I'm not hypocrite enough to be angry with you for wanting to kill the person who murdered your father.”

Luke stared at his hands. His eyes felt dry and scratched. Wearily, he rubbed his fingertips across his temples. He was too tired for this kind of soul searching, but he knew it wasn't always easy to pick and chose when to talk about these kind of things. There wasn't an etiquette guide for talking to the half-sister you'd tried to murder.

“I was 17,” she said quietly. “And I didn't think it through. All I did kill seven fathers, destroy seven families. Do to other kids what had been done to me.”

“Not quite,” he said, his voice harsh. He looked at her, a grim look in his dark blue eyes. “Not quite what had been done to you.”

She shrugged with a casualness she didn't feel. “I should have known better,” she said quietly.

“Would you do it differently now?”

She looked at him, a soft smile on her lips that didn't quite reach the cold honesty in her eyes. “No,” she admitted. “No, I wouldn't. Not really.” She gave a short laugh. “I know what I'm like,” she said reluctantly. “I don't think I could have done it differently.” She stared at him thoughtfully. “You look like shit, Luke,” she said gently. “Get to bed.”

He smiled, but stood up stiffly, hiding his gratitude. He knew she was letting him escape, probably eager to end the discussion for her own ease of mind as well. “Stop bossing me about,” he said, stifling his yawn.

“Elder sister's privilege,” she said with a smile. “Now bugger off before I put you over my knee.”

He laughed softly. She was as uncomfortable with their brief heart-to-heart as he had been, he knew. “I'll see you later.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she agreed.

He paused at the doorway. There was one thing he had to say, even though he expected it would shatter the tentative truce that had broken out between them. “Maggie.” He rested his hand on the door-frame, unable to look at her. He saw her movement in the corner of his eye as she turned at the sound of his voice. “I did it for a quiet life,” he said softly. “The most stupid reason imaginable, can you believe it?”

Unwillingly, he turned to look at her. Her pale face was an emotionless mask as she listened to him without saying a word. There was no forgiveness in her expression, but there wasn't any blame that he could see either.

“From the day my father died, she was always on at me,” he continued. “When she found out you were alive – and God alone knows how she found out you were Magpie – she never left me alone for a second. She drove me insane with it.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me, Luke,” she said quietly.

“Yes, I do,” he replied firmly. “I have to say it out loud, because -” He broke off, tiredness conspiring with sheer emotional weariness to confound his intellect. “I just wanted to get it over with. I wanted my life back,” he said. “Killing you seemed to be the only way I could get that.”

To his amazement, she smiled warmly. The first warm smile he had seen from her. “I can understand that,” she said.

“When did you know?” he asked remorselessly, needing to finish what he had unwillingly started. “That I'm your brother?”

Her smile faded as the memories came back to her. She wasn't comfortable with this discussion either. It seemed she locked her emotions away as much as he did.

“Something she said.” Maggie's voice sounded strange – stilted, as though unwilling to remember. As though the memories weren't quite complete, he thought. Considering the state she had been in after they had tortured her, it was to be expected, he realised. “She said something about my father. Made me realise she was my mother. Then it was obvious.” She swallowed with difficulty, and he saw a frown cross her face in the dim light. “I didn't even know my mother was alive,” she whispered. “I swear, Luke – I never knew until that moment.”

“But you didn't tell me. When I was alone with you, in that garage. You could have told me.”

She looked away from him, unable to deny the accusation in his quiet tone. “I could have,” she admitted. “And what would have happened then?”

“You were – what?” He frowned, the realisation making him angry and embarrassed in equal measure. “Protecting me?”

She shrugged. “I don't know,” she said, unwilling to admit to such a bizarre notion, however true it happened to be. Instead, she turned the uncomfortable spotlight back onto him. “Why are you helping us now? Trying to make amends? Atonement?”

He shook his head, staring at her from the doorway. Looking at her, it was difficult to believe there had ever been a time when he hadn't realised she was his sister. The similarity, once noticed, was undeniable. For a man who prided himself on his powers of observation, it was a painful admission.

“I can't,” he said. “I'm not apologising to you. You murdered my father, killed my mother – our mother. I wasn't particularly fond of either of them, but they were my parents.” His quiet voice held only the barest trace of accusation. “Cowley gave me another chance, got me into MI6.” A harsh note of self-conscious mockery entered his voice. “Oh, I know he had his reasons.” The wry smile faded. “But he helped me, and he didn't have to. And I know you could have made my life a lot more difficult if you had put your mind to it. But you didn't.”

“So it's gratitude then?” There was provocation in the soft, silken voice, but Luke was too tired and too wary to bite.

“Does it matter?”

She shrugged. “Not really,” she admitted. She rose from the sofa and walked towards him, her violet eyes regarding him carefully. Once she stood in front of him, she reached out to give him a gentle push. “Now get to bed,” she admonished, the nagging tone softened with a smile. “I'm grateful, even if you're not.”

“What for?” Tiredness added to his confusion, but he allowed her to push him further into the hallway and towards his room.

“For Macklin. And Towser. For believing we're innocent.” She watched as he dragged himself to his room, feet landing heavily on the carpet. “Thank you, Luke,” she said. He turned back at the door to his room, seeing the earnest expression on her face before she turned away and entered her room. “Good night.”

She closed the door as he muttered his own good night.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

Bodie leaned on the doorbell with annoying persistence. The door opened to reveal Ray Doyle, bleary eyed and bad tempered, electric razor in one hand.

“I've been thinking,” Bodie began without preamble.

“You'd better come in and sit down then, take the weight off your brains.” Doyle's snarky comment earned a humourless laugh from his partner, but he followed Doyle into the kitchen.

“So what great revelations came to you in the night?” Doyle asked, running one hand over his face and chasing any remaining stubble with the razor in the other.

Bodie leaned on the kitchen counter, idly flicking through the notebook Doyle had left out. “Looks like I wasn't the only one,” he said. “Morris or Hughes must have stabbed Reynolds when the found the body. First one to examine him must have slid the stiletto in.”

“Yes, but where's the stiletto?” Doyle demanded.

Bodie smiled. “Ah, I'm ahead of you there, mate,” he announced triumphantly.

Doyle turned a belligerent look upon his partner. “Well, go on then,” he prompted.

Bodie turned, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms in front of him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “I'm surprised at you, Ray. Thought you'd know what sneaky little gadgets gang-land murderers have got up their sleeves.”

“Enlighten me,” Doyle snarled, his naturally limited patience even shorter after so little sleep.

Bodie raised both hands, waving his open palms at shoulder height. “Up the sleeve,” he announced patiently, lowering his arms and folding them across his chest once more. “You get those wrist operated blades, like an ice pick. One flick, and the blade slides out.”

Doyle's sea-green gaze froze as his intellect tallied the facts against the imagined evidence. A twinkle sparkled in his eyes and the ghost of a smile lifted his full lips. “You have something there, my son,” he said quietly.

Bodie's grin broadened. “I thought so,” he agreed without modesty.

Doyle left the razor on the counter. “Come on, then,” he prompted, reaching for his jacket. He checked the SIG in his holster, and the keys in his coat pocket, before opening the door. Bodie stood blinking in feigned surprise.

“I haven't had me breakfast yet,” Bodie moaned with childish petulance.

“Come on,” Doyle repeated, emphasising his words with a nod of his head. “Sooner we get to Cowley, sooner I'll stand you to a bacon and egg sandwich in the canteen.”

Bodie's grin was infectious. “With sauce? No good having a bacon sarnie without sauce.”

Doyle ushered his partner out of the house with a low chuckle. “As if I'd insult your taste buds with anything else.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The door clanged open, giving Macklin barely a split second to react before Willis swept into the room, an agent Macklin recognised as Lucas behind him. Preternaturally sharp reflexes brought Macklin to his feet in one smooth movement, poised and ready for attack. If Willis found this speed unnerving, he hid it reasonably well.

Willis took a seat at the table, not sparing a glance for Macklin. He simply spread the papers across the desk and waited for Macklin to take the seat opposite him without invitation.

Macklin slid into the chair warily, keeping one eye on Lucas as he did so. Only when Macklin had settled himself in the chair did Willis look at him.

“What's this?”

The leather and steel contraption landed on top of the metal desk with a hollow clang. Macklin glanced at it, before reaching to turn it over. A leather sheath with buckles attached was on one side of the object. The other hid a narrow tube and a neat catch device. Macklin examined it with a bored look.

“Modified switch blade,” he announced calmly. “Fit your arm through the harness, and the blade is activated, either by gravity or a flick of the wrist.”

“Care to demonstrate?” Willis gave a predatory smile, a mere pulling back of his lips from his teeth, his eyes cold and dark.

Macklin eyed him suspiciously. He could smell the trap, but had no option except to spring it.

He fitted the leather sheath around his right forearm, fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar buckles. Once fitted to his arm, he examined the mechanism carefully. Too often these gadget blades caught out the unwary, severing fingers or piercing hands.

“Ostblock in Russia produced ballistic knives for use by Spetsnaz forces,” Macklin explained in his clipped, precise voice. “Bulkier than this, spring operated or gas propelled. This one is more -” The blade shot out of the end of the cylinder as Macklin flexed his hand back, palm facing forward. “Bit sensitive.” Macklin offered his professional opinion. He turned his arm left and right, examining the blade and mechanism from all angles. “Seven inch stiletto,” he said. “No edge, no blade. Simply penetration.”

“And have you seen it before?”

Macklin's steel-blue eyes flashed to Willis, sensing the trap closing in. “No,” he replied firmly. “It doesn't serve any purpose. It's just a flashy toy.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how it came to be found in your home last night?”

Macklin's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you'd care to explain what you were doing searching my home last night?” his voice ice cold with anger.

“Looking for that,” Willis replied smoothly. “And we found it.”

“How convenient.”

Willis pointed to the stiletto blade gleaming in the artificial light. “That's the weapon that murdered Reynolds,” he announced calmly. “Perhaps you'd care to reconsider your answer?”

The trap was sprung. Macklin could smell Willis' triumphant glee. To him, it was rank and revolting.

“I've never seen it before,” Macklin repeated, his voice calm and deliberate.

Willis raised his eyebrows in an understanding look, although his disbelief was palpable. “Maybe you haven't,” he agreed. “Maybe it belongs to Draven.”

“It's a useless weapon,” Macklin said again, a hard note of anger in his voice. He unbuckled the blade and pushed it back across the table.

Willis smiled. “It served its purpose here,” he argued in a silken voice. “Maybe you can think of an explanation as to why Draven would have a stiletto?”

Macklin glared at him helplessly. Why would Maggie have a stiletto? Oh, Macklin could think of a couple of reasons. He'd never admit them to Willis, or anyone else for that matter. Not for the first time, Macklin was grateful that Maggie was as far away as possible.

“Maggie doesn't have a stiletto,” he maintained, his voice returning to his normal, calm, clipped tone.

“Not that you're aware of,” Willis added smoothly. He slid photographs across the table towards Macklin, who examined them carefully. The room Reynolds had been in, showing the high windows, no deeper than 14 inches. “The point of entry,” Willis explained. “Now I'm not suggesting you or Towser could fit through that gap,” he added with a mocking smile. Willis could afford some playful teasing now he felt he had all the cards. “But Draven is a slim woman, and agile, so I'm told. I'm sure she could get through that gap without too much difficulty. A few scratches and bruises, perhaps, but nothing else.”

Bruises. Macklin remembered the red marks along her hip when they had showered together.

No. He slammed his mind shut on the thought before a flicker of doubt crossed his face. Maggie did not kill Reynolds. She wouldn't. She coul – no. He stopped the lie before he could finish the thought. Magpie could have done it. But she didn't.

“Maggie didn't kill Reynolds,” Macklin said firmly, his steel-blue eyes holding Willis' without hesitation.

Willis didn't bother to hide his doubt. “Why are you so eager to protect a woman who has abandoned you to take the rap?” he asked softly.

“She hasn't abandoned me.” Macklin was quick to defend her, even though he knew it was exactly what Willis wanted to hear.

Willis shrugged, as though Macklin's comments were a matter of complete indifference to him. “As unpleasant as it is for you to hear, Brian, that's exactly what she has done,” he said, his voice suggesting comradely good-will. “Because this blade in your house means the murderer is either you or Draven. And I will see someone held responsible for the death of one of my men. If not Draven, then it will be you, Brian.” Willis' eyes glittered with promise. “I'd rather it was her than you, believe me,” he added earnestly.

Macklin felt the anger rising inside him, the adrenalin flooding his system. “I didn't kill Reynolds,” he said, his voice harsh as his anger bled into his tone. “And neither did Maggie. You're barking up the wrong tree, Willis.”

Willis gathered the pictures and blade together, standing up to leave. Lucas moved to the door, holding the handle to open the door when Willis was ready to leave.

“I suggest you think long and hard, Brian,” Willis said as he stepped towards the door. “Because if you don't start co-operating, we will have to find methods to make you.” He turned when he reached the door to fix Macklin with a look of cold determination. “The choice is yours.”

Macklin stood up slowly, fury blazing in his eyes, his face a taut mask of anger. “Don't threaten me, Willis,” he snarled. “Don't you dare.”

Willis looked unimpressed by the wrathful look of Macklin. “You forget who you're dealing with, Macklin,” he said, his voice bitter and impersonal. “It's time we reminded you.”

Macklin sank back into his chair as the door clanged shut behind Willis and Luke, his mind a whirl. Despite the doubts Willis had cast, he knew – he had to believe – that Maggie was innocent. All he had was his belief, because cold logic told him that if anyone could have done it, it was her. She had used a stiletto before; she could have got through the windows, and she even had the injuries to support it. What she didn't have was a motive, but since when had Magpie needed one?

No – Maggie didn't kill Reynolds. Because Macklin found he couldn't bear to think of being in a world where she had.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Poisoned,” Cowley declared with a grim expression, his voice tight with anger and almost prim distaste. “Coroner confirms the stab wound was administered after death. Reynolds died of massive cyanide poisoning.”

“I thought that was supposed to be easy to spot?” Bodie asked with a frown.

Cowley have him a tired look. “You've read too many Agatha Christie novels, Bodie,” he growled. “Most people can't smell cyanide, and the redness of the skin, or blueness of the lips aren't as common as popular fiction would have us believe.”

“Next you'll be saying the butler did it,” Doyle said with a half smile, unable to keep his face dead-pan.

Bodie flashed him a glare, and mimed unconvincing laughter.

“The hip flask,” Doyle said, schooling his face into serious consideration of the report before Cowley could remonstrate with them for their lack of propriety. Despite the gallows humour, Doyle's green eyes glittered in anticipation of the chase. “Morris and Hughes found the body. Either one of them stabbed him. The hip flask was there when scene of crimes took their pictures, and then it wasn't . So whoever stabbed him forgot to remove it.”

Cowley gave an approving look. “Aye, you've both done well,” he allowed. “But it's not over. Willis will want a water-tight alternative before he lets Macklin and Towser go free.”

“Surely we've got enough to at least get them out?” Bodie asked.

Cowley glared at him from over the top of his dark framed glasses. “Normal rules of evidence and procedure don't apply to MI6, Bodie, as you should well know,” he growled.

“Have you got anything on Reynolds yet, sir?” Bodie asked.

Cowley removed his glasses with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between the fingers of one hand. “Not yet,” he admitted. “It's going to take some digging. Betty is collating all the files we and MI6 have on him.”

“Willis is eroding the evidence,” Doyle said, his green eyes wide with concern. “Peterson's only been given the information Willis wants him to know. And Willis is only interested in the evidence that points to Macklin, Towser or Maggie.”

“All the more reason to move fast,” Cowley snapped firmly. “You leave Willis to me. There'll be no patsys on my watch.” He threw the coroner's report across the desk. “Get over to one of the other agents' places and start asking questions,” he instructed.

Both agents nodded in acceptance. Doyle reached for the report as Bodie moved to the door.

“Lean on them,” Cowley added, a meaningful look in his cold grey eyes. “A conspiracy is only as strong as the weakest member. So find them. And lean.”

Bodie and Doyle left the office, their long strides matching each other down the panelled corridors.

“Weakest member,” Doyle mused.

“Taylor,” Bodie offered without hesitation.

Doyle pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. “True. But he didn't find the body, and he was with Macklin around the time the pictures were taken.”

“Short?” Bodie ventured, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. “Or Hughes? He found the body.”

They paused at the top of the stairs. Doyle tapped the file in a rhythmic tattoo on his hand as he considered the options.

“Hughes,” he agreed at last.

Bodie nodded. “Come on then, Detective Doyle. Time to play Bad Cop, Worse Cop.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Bodie hadn't reached the age he currently admitted to without developing some sharp instincts. Both he and Doyle owed their lives several times over simply to those finely honed instincts.

Still, it didn't require a great deal of suspicion to find something wrong about the unlocked door to Hughes' apartment. It pushed open easily under the slight pressure of Doyle's fingertips. And yet there was no sign of forced entry.

They drew their guns in the hallway outside the apartment, communicating in subtle nods and eye movements. Over the years, they had perfected their non-verbal communications to the point where an entire conversation could take place between them without either of them uttering a word.

They entered the apartment in a whirlwind of blurred movement, perfectly poised for action, ready for any attack.

They needn't have bothered.

Hughes was partially suspended, the thin nylon rope passing through the chain of the light fitting and finishing low enough that Hughes would have been able to stand up before fitting his head through the slip knot. Simply hanging, his feet brushing against the floor, his knees bent from where he had used his own body weight to slowly strangulate himself. His hands were curled into fists by his sides. His eyes should have been closed, but the bulging caused by the manner of his death gave them a half-closed, drowsy look. His lips had the blue tinge of cyanosis. Otherwise, he looked remarkably peaceful.

Doyle cast a professional eye over the body while Bodie checked out the rest of the apartment.

“Nothing,” Bodie said, returning to the lounge.

Doyle turned to look around the room. “No note?”

The two men looked around, checking tables and bookcases, but no note could be seen. They were careful not to disturb anything. After all, a suicide note would hardly be hidden.

Doyle stared at a space on the table, a thoughtful look on his face. “Why is there a pen on that table, but no notebook?” he asked slowly.

Bodie followed his glance, and shrugged. “Who knows? I'd better call it in.”

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed. “Better call Peterson as well.”

Bodie pulled a face. “Willis is going to love this.”

Doyle gave him a wide-eyed look, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he agreed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Whether by design or accident, Peterson and Willis arrived at Hughes' apartment a few minutes after Cowley had arrived, with Murphy in tow. Willis' displeasure at finding the controller of CI5 already at the scene was palpable.

“Well, you can't put this one at the door of Macklin or Towser,” Cowley said with sly malice.

Willis smiled like a shark. “But Draven is at large,” he said smoothly.

“In Italy,” Cowley replied sharply.

“So we've been led to believe,” Willis said.

“From the state of the body, he's been dead around five hours,” Bodie said, directing his comments to Cowley alone. He had singularly ignored Willis since the man had entered the room.

Luke approached the dead man, his piercing gaze cool and calm. Behind him, Willis and Cowley continued to argue procedure and evidence. Luke took advantage of the distraction to examine the body.

Doyle glanced up from where he crouched beside the corpse. “No note,” Doyle muttered as Luke crouched beside him.

“But a space on the table for a notepad,” Luke countered. His dark blue eyes scanned the body with a cold precision that fascinated Doyle. Luke could be so like Maggie it was uncanny.

“So what you suggesting? Murder or suicide?” Doyle asked quietly.

Luke shrugged briefly. “There are better ways to murder someone.” But something sounded uncertain in his voice. This wasn't the first time he'd seen a murder made to look like a suicide.

“Without a note, we'd have to call open verdict until we can get something either way,” Doyle said.

Luke pulled a ballpoint pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, reaching out with it to gently probe the dead man's hands. “Why clenched?” he muttered, almost to himself.

Doyle frowned. “Spasms from death, I expect,” he offered.

Luke shook his head slightly. “Get those hands open, Doyle, and don't let Willis see.”

Without another word, Luke stood up smoothly, standing behind Doyle and looking around the room as though committing the lay out to memory.

“Peterson?” Willis querulous voice was sharp in the small room.

Luke turned, his eyebrows raised in polite enquiry. “Sir?” He still managed to stand between Willis and Doyle.

“Anything?” Willis demanded.

Luke cast his eyes over the room again. “Difficult to say, sir. Without a suicide note, it's a hard call to make.”

“Murder, then,” Willis said, concentrating on fabricating his own version of events as soon as possible.

Luke blinked. “Hardly, sir,” he offered, ignoring the flash of anger in Willis' face as he refused to follow his controller's lead. “No point making a murder look like a suicide without a note. If it was murder, where's the struggle?”

“Run a toxicology report,” Willis barked. “Get him to the coroner.”

“Toxicology?” Cowley remarked smoothly. “The same toxicology report you ran on Reynolds, Willis?”

Willis turned on Cowley, not bothering to disguise his anger. “Reynolds was stabbed, Cowley, and you damn well know it,” he snarled. “I don't know what Draven has over you, or the rest of CI5, but I'm not falling for it.”

Doyle stood up smoothly, hands resting on the back pockets of his sinfully tight jeans. “Maggie and Macklin are good,” he said. “But not even they can teleport.”

Luke turned to fix Doyle with a questioning look. Doyle met the gaze candidly, giving nothing away.

“Have you finished?” Luke asked, his easy tone at odds with the sharp look.

A subtle lifting of the corners of Doyle's full mouth was the only indication Luke got that something had happened. “Hmmm? Oh yes,” Doyle said firmly. “We'll just hang around and hold the fort til the meat wagon gets here, shall we?”

Luke eyes narrowed, sharing a slight smile with Doyle. When he turned back to Willis, his face was an impassive mask. “Shall I stay as well, sir?” he said.

Willis considered the options, his shifty gaze moving from each CI5 man to the other. “Yes, I think you'd better,” he conceded. “I'll make arrangements.” He nodded abruptly to Cowley, before turning on his heel and leaving. He spared no backward glance for his dead agent, or the live one he left behind.

Luke visibly relaxed as soon as his boss had left the room. Cowley nodded to Murphy, who understood his controller's instructions without the need for words. He moved immediately to the still open doorway, looking out with calm nonchalance.

The four men left in the room exchanged uncomfortable glances while they waited for the all-clear from Murphy. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the tall agent returned.

“Okay,” Murphy reported. “Now - is someone going to tell me what's going on?”

“Don't look at me, mate,” Bodie drawled.

Luke turned to Doyle with an expectant look. “What did you get?” he asked, too intent on his investigation to waste time with formalities.

Doyle grinned, holding up one hand at shoulder height. In his hand, a small key glinted in the light. “Hughes was hiding something,” he announced.

“Find what it opens, whatever it is,” Cowley growled. He gave one last sad look at the body of Hughes, shaking his head, before turning to the door. “6-2.” With a mildly exasperated look, Murphy fell in behind the controller as he swept from the room.

“You're running out of time.” Luke said without preamble. Bodie and Doyle gave him a sharp look. “Willis is gunning for Macklin. He's talking about sodium pentathol.”

Doyle's face scrunched up in disbelief. “He's - what?”

Bodie gave an incredulous laugh. “You have to be kidding? What kind of idiot goes at Macklin with a needle?”

Luke's expression remained stony. “The kind who can't afford for it to be a mistake.” The dark blue eyes were intense and serious. “As soon as he starts anything like that with Macklin, he has to make sure he gets evidence of guilt. He has to have everything to back it up. Because if he does that, and Macklin is cleared, Willis won't be able to recover from it. It's Macklin or him now.”

“Or Maggie,” Doyle said quietly.

Luke straightened up with a jerk. “What do you mean?” he asked. He sounded uncomfortable, his voice stilted.

Doyle met the nervous look with a steady green gaze. “The only way to clear Macklin would be to give him Magpie. He's more convinced by her guilt than anyone else's, especially now.”

Luke hesitated, perplexed by Doyle's candour. “We're not handing Magpie over to Willis,” he said firmly.

“It wouldn't be the first time she's made a murder look like a suicide.”

Doyle's words cut through Luke's control like a knife. He blinked, visibly shocked, his pale face turning more bloodless. He stared at Doyle, at the cold, calculating look in the green eyes. He couldn't quite believe what the CI5 man was suggesting. And yet – the worst feeling was the realisation that he had the same suspicions himself. At the time Hughes died, Maggie had been alone. And only Luke knew that.

Luke looked away from Doyle, unwilling to let the perceptive gaze of the agent see the doubt in his own face. “See what that key fits,” he said, his voice not giving away the shaking he felt inside. “Hughes had a reason to leave the key in his hand.”

“No sign of a struggle,” Bodie said, apparently not hearing Luke's words. “How could someone be persuaded to hang themselves without leaving a sign of it?”

Luke looked at the expressionless mask that was Bodie's face. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that the two CI5 men were trying to provoke some kind of reaction. He met Bodie's indigo gaze, finding a calm certainty behind his fleeting concerns. He lost his doubtful attitude, his demeanour settling into the very familiar detached and impassive look so like Maggie.

“Persuasion at gun point isn't unheard of,” he replied indifferently. “Are you trying to do Willis' job for him?”

Doyle's face was the picture of innocence. “Us? No. Never,” he said at last.

“Just playing Devil's Advocate,” Bodie offered smoothly.

Irritation crossed Luke's face. “I think things are quite complicated enough without you two trying to be clever,” he snapped. “Now check for what that key's for, before Willis' scene of crime boys arrive. I'll see if I can stall them.”

Bodie moved to one side to allow Luke to leave. The MI6 man didn't spare them a second look as he left the apartment, Doyle's calculating gaze watching him all the way.

“He sounded almost convinced, I thought,” Doyle said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, he did,” Bodie agreed. “Reassuring, that.”

Doyle flashed a broad grin. “Yeah. That's what I thought.”

“Right,” Bodie said with a deep breath. “Best get searching before Willis' lads turn up. What we looking for?”

Doyle held out the small key. “Looks like a petty cash tin or something,” he suggested. “Something small.”

“Why keep it in his hand?”

Doyle mobile mouth twisted downwards in a grimace of confusion. “Mystery, mate.”

“Well, we haven't got long to debate about it,” Bodie said quietly. “Let's get looking.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

If Willis expected to surprise Macklin with his sudden entrance, he severely misjudged his target. Macklin looked up with lazy insolence as the door banged open and Willis stormed in.

“Draven isn't in Italy,” Willis announced.

Macklin hid the surge of worry, wondering what Willis knew, or thought he knew. His blank expression failed to give Willis any information even accidentally. He would wait to see what Willis knew first, and even then, he wouldn't tell MI6 anything he didn't want them to know.

“And there's no sick father,” Willis added.

Again, Macklin simply eyed him with barely concealed contempt. “You show an unhealthy interest in my partner,” he drawled lazily.

“Why is there no record of her until two years ago?” Willis continued relentlessly.

“It smacks of desperation,” Macklin added in the same bored tone, as though Willis had never spoken.

Willis' hands thumped down on the metal table between them, his brown eyes flashing with anger. “Another man is dead,” he snarled. “And I think she's responsible.”

“You're wrong,” Macklin replied firmly, his steel-blue gaze unwavering.

Willis gave a cruel smirk. “Am I?” He straightened up, smoothing down the line of his jacket, self-conscious after his outburst of temper. He waved a finger at Macklin in warning. “You know where she is,” he said, his voice lowered to a menacing growl. “And you will tell me.”

Macklin's expression hardened as he leaned forward on the table, his palms flat against the metal surface. “Go to hell, Willis,” he said quietly.

Willis leaned towards him, goading, daring him to retaliate. “I will find her,” he whispered. “And when I do, I'll remember that there's no record of her existence.” The cold brown eyes sparkled with hatred. “No record of her, Macklin,” he repeated. “I can do whatever I want to her, and you won't be able to lift a finger.”

Macklin's blue eyes glittered like ice. “I'll remember you said that, Willis,” he snarled. “When this is all over, I'll remember you said that.”

Willis' lips pulled back from his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Are you threatening me, Macklin?” he asked silkily.

Macklin did not flinch. “The only one making threats is you, Willis. I'm making you a promise.”

Willis straightened, his smile broadening, shark-like. “You'll change your tune,” he said with chilling arrogance. “When she's here, under my control, you'll do whatever it takes. Whatever I want.”

The muscles in Macklin's jaw bunched and tensed as he controlled his boiling temper. “Someone is murdering MI6 agents,” he growled. “I hope to God the next one is you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Doyle!”

Doyle followed his partner's voice to Hughes' bedroom. “We haven't got much time,” he complained.

He was silenced by the sight of Bodie, standing beside a rumpled bed, waving a small tin in the air.

“Under the pillow,” Bodie explained as Doyle tried the small key in the lock. The box clicked open. The two men shared a triumphant look.

Bodie's hand came down on top of Doyle's as he reached to open the box. Doyle's green eyes gave him a questioning look, a frown creasing his features.

“Evidence,” Bodie said, a solemn look in his navy blue eyes. A soft smile curled the edges of his finely arched lips. “Can't have Willis saying we forged it, can we?”

Doyle's eyes narrowed, staring into the expressionless mask of his partner face. “Fingerprints,” he agreed.

Bodie nodded. “Get it back to Cowley.”

“We don't know if what's inside is any help.”

Bodie took the box from his partner's hand, turning the key carefully to lock it again. He deposited the box in one jacket pocket, slipping the key into the pocket of his tight fitting black trousers.

“He had that key in his hand for a reason,” Bodie explained. “We're just going to have to gamble.”

They heard the sound of footsteps in the flat. “Sounds like we've run out of time,” Doyle said quietly.

They left the bedroom, almost walking straight into Luke as he went in search of them. Luke gave them a brief questioning look, before schooling his features to impassivity.

“You've had long enough,” he said, his voice clipped and aggressive. “Time you left.”

Doyle stepped up close to him, forcing him to step backwards to allow the two CI5 men past. “I think we've outstayed our welcome, Bodie,” he drawled.

“We know where we're not wanted,” Bodie said, adopting his mockingly precise accent.

Luke fixed them with a look of profound boredom. “You two should have your own television series,” he sneered. “Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber.”

Bodie mimed forced laughter, brushing past Luke and following his partner from the apartment.

“Do remember to let us know what you find out,” Doyle called behind him.

“Oh I'll make sure you're kept fully up to speed,” Luke replied, losing none of his mocking edge. “You just make sure you can keep up.”

Bodie gave a false look of hurt. “He's got such a sharp tongue,” he complained.

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed, giving Luke a derisory glance. “Makes you wonder where he gets it from.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Luke scoffed, turning his back on them and returning to the men clearing up the apartment.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie paced the apartment restlessly, desperately trying to expend some of her nervous energy. She knew better than get too close to the windows. She wasn't so stupid she would jeopardise everything everyone had risked by going outside, but the staleness of the air was choking her. She could feel it against her skin, dusty and grimy despite the clinical, almost sterile cleanliness of Luke's apartment. Her eyes felt gritty and hot, burning with lack of sleep. Every time tiredness had overwhelmed her, dragging her into sudden sleep, she had jerked back to wakefulness. Sometimes, she didn't even know what it was that had caused it. Often, it was because she had thought she had heard Macklin calling for her. Other times, it had been darker images, or she had been left without the dream, only the lingering terror, her heart hammering in her throat, her breathing hoarse and gasping.

She couldn't relax, but she knew that if she sat down or lay on the bed, she would fall asleep through sheer exhaustion. And she would awake within minutes, shaking and sweating, crying out for someone who wasn't there.

Her situation wasn't helped by her complete impotence. There was nothing she could do; she wasn't privy to information that would assist the investigation. Other than the complete certainty that responsibility for the crime lay with one of the other seven agents, she had nothing to offer. She was not accustomed to this feeling of helplessness. She couldn't even run away to escape it.

It was a new form of torture.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“You moved Towser.” Willis' accusation met Luke as soon as he entered the Controller's office. Willis' brown eyes bored into him. “I'm giving you the opportunity to explain yourself.”

Luke's expression gave nothing away. “I thought it best to keep them on separate floors,” he said.

“This is MI6 headquarters,” Willis said, a mocking note in his clipped voice. “No-one – not even CI5 – will mount an assault on this building to rescue them.”

“I thought it would add to the disorientation of the prisoners,” Luke continued in a reasonable voice.

Willis' fixed, expressionless, mask did not shift. “From what I hear, Towser was exhibiting signs of distress before you moved him.”

Luke frowned, pursing his lips as he appeared to consider the hidden accusation in his controller's words. “Actually, sir,” he began calmly. “He appeared to simply be expending energy. I could not see any signs of anxiety when I entered the room.”

The two men stared at each other in silent challenge. Luke remained poised and serene, displaying none of the tension he felt at Willis' apparent suspicion.

Willis smiled slowly, satisfied with Luke's untroubled appearance. “Well, Towser is not the target,” he said at last. “I want Macklin broken in the next 48 hours, by whatever means necessary.”

Luke gave a short bark of disbelieving laughter. “You can't be serious.” He ignored the flash of temper in Willis' brown eyes and continued. “This isn't any normal suspect, sir,” he said. “This is the man who's trained just about everyone in the service. There's nothing we have he won't know about. No trick of which he won't be aware.”

“Whatever means necessary, Peterson,” Willis snarled. “I will have Macklin guilty of this. Nothing else is acceptable.”

“And what if it's not him?” Luke insisted. “We haven't even considered anyone else, except Macklin and Draven. And we have nothing on either of them.”

“We have the murder weapon in their home!” Willis' fragile temper snapped at the blatant insubordination from his agent. “There is no other possible outcome.”

“We have no motive.”

“Then find one! Make one!” Willis' eyes blazed, his lips pale in his bloodless face. “Dammit, Peterson. What alternative is there? Would you undermine your own agency for the sake of one murder?”

Luke stared at Willis, blinking in shock. He had known his boss was intent on pursuing his favoured suspects at the expense of any other, but he hadn't actually thought that Willis would actively deny any other possibility. That he would willing let the murderers of one his men walk free if it meant keeping a clean doorstep for MI6.

“I thought we were investigating the murder of Reynolds,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “I didn't think we were simply investigating Macklin so we could pin it on him.”

Willis took a deep breath, trying to regain his cool composure after his angry outburst. “That is the whole purpose, Peterson. I hadn't thought I needed to spell it out to you.”

Luke lowered his head, running his hand through his dark hair before burying both hands in the pockets of his trousers. The look he turned to Willis was regretful, almost embarrassed. “I'm not sure I can fabricate the evidence you require, sir,” he said at last.

Willis gave a harsh laugh. “You sound like bloody Reynolds,” he said mockingly, taking his seat. He didn't see the shock that crossed Luke's features.

“I'm sorry, sir?” Luke stammered. “Reynolds?”

Willis looked up from the papers on his desk, apparently no longer concentrating on their conversation. “Reynolds,” he confirmed. “Stupid idiot complained about two members of his squad. Said their procedures were unorthodox and immoral.” He gave a brief laugh, as though the notion was a fantastic illusion.

Luke felt a rush of adrenalin. Reynolds had requested a transfer to another department, but he hadn't been able to find out why. If he could, he would have what CI5 were missing. Willis appeared oblivious to the importance of what he was saying, but then it meant nothing to him. This had never been about investigating a murder to Willis; only about scoring points against CI5.

“Who did he complain about, sir?” he asked, his mouth dry. He adopted the same blithe tone as Willis, eager to hide the significance of what Willis obviously considered to be unimportant information.

“Jenkins,” Willis replied dismissively, his attention back on the file in his hands. “And Morris.”

Luke closed his eyes briefly, trying to stem the storm of emotions whirling through him, threatening to swamp him. Morris – who had found the body. Jenkins – who had been on the same team as Reynolds throughout the day of his murder.

“There wasn't any of this on his file,” he said, surprising himself with the calmness of his voice.

Willis looked up sharply. “Of course not,” he said, his tone clearly suggesting that such an omission was obvious. “Destroy the careers of two efficient agents because one man doesn't have the stomach for the job? Not a chance.”

“Of course.” The false camaraderie almost choked Peterson, but he knew he had to maintain it. “So do we have anything else to use against Macklin?” He deliberately changed the subject before Willis grew suspicious. What the controller had told him held no significance to Willis, only to Luke as another piece in the jigsaw puzzle.

“We found the murder weapon,” Willis said. “Coroner confirmed the weapon matched the stab wound.”

“Where was it found?”

Willis shook his head, twisting his lips downwards as he tried to recall. “I can't remember if it was mentioned in Short's report.”

Luke's head lowered briefly. Short – another agent who had been at the training facility when Reynolds was murdered.

“Taylor and Morris were present as well,” Willis continued, oblivious to the emotions besieging the man standing in front of him.

“Taylor and Morris,” Luke repeated, unsure whether he was dreaming the sheer enormity of the conspiracy unfolding in front of him.

“Draven is Macklin's weakness,” Willis went on, unaware that Luke had even spoken. “If we can find her, we can use her to undermine him.”

Luke looked up to find Willis' glittering gaze fixed on him. “Yes, sir,” he agreed smoothly, with far more assuredness than he felt.

Willis gave a predatory smile. “Of course,” he said silkily. “We could just say we have her.”

Luke felt his insides twist and plummet. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The silver Capri snaked through the busy streets smoothly.

“This had better be bloody worth it,” Doyle growled, one hand resting on the grab rail in his habitual pose.

Bodie's face was fixed, his jaw firm as he concentrated on weaving through the lunchtime traffic. “We won't know til we get there,” he said calmly.

Doyle gave a grunt of assent. He stared out of the windscreen, his thoughts idly ticking away.

Bodie flashed him a look. He knew the wheels in his partner's mind ground faster than most and more thoroughly. Doyle was a brooder, hiding dark thoughts behind bright eyes.

“What's the matter now?” he asked.

Doyle pulled a face, as though trying to think of a way to start. “Peterson,” he said at last. “What do you make of him?”

Bodie gave a half-shrug. “Not much,” he said.

Doyle fixed him with a shrewd look. “Come on, Bodie,” he growled. “He kidnapped you. Bloody well run you over. And here we are, running halfway across town because he says there's something he has to tell us.”

“So you don't trust him,” Bodie summarised with an unconcerned shrug. “We don't have to trust him. But I'll tell you this much.”

“What?”

Bodie gave him a dark look. “Maggie seems to trust him. And if anyone should have a reason not to, it's going to be her, isn't it?”

Doyle grunted. “So you think we should just trust her instincts, is that what you're saying?” he demanded.

“They're pretty good instincts she's got,” Bodie said. “But more than that, there's Cowley.”

“He trusted Barry Martin. And Meredith. Look what happened there.”

Bodie stole another sidelong look at his partner. Doyle had a nasty streak, he knew, which would come out in snide, sharp comments. “Okay, so he's not infallible. Never said he was the bloody Pope, did I.”

Doyle lapsed into silence, pulling at his bottom lip thoughtfully, his face scrunched into a scowl.

“Besides,” Bodie added with a grin. “Even Maggie's made mistakes in the past.”

Doyle's wide eyed look was surprised. “When's that?” he asked.

Bodie suppressed the desire to laugh, his mobile mouth twitching with the effort. “Screwed you, didn't she?”

Doyle rolled his eyes before landing a sharp punch to his partner's upper arm. “Never going to let me live it down, are you?” he complained with humour.

“You?” Bodie's laughter gave his words a shrill note. “You shagged the Cow's god-daughter, mate. Mrs. Macklin in all but name. I'm surprised you're still capable of shagging anything.”

“Jealousy,” Doyle said archly. “Will get you nowhere. Now pull up. We're here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The door to the apartment opened before Doyle's knuckles could rap the wood. Luke stood in the doorway, his expression solemn, dark shadows bruising the pale skin beneath his too-bright eyes. He stepped back, further into the building, leaving Bodie and Doyle to follow him.

Reynolds' apartment. Doyle supposed it represented some kind of neutral ground between them, some way of meeting that involved neither CI5, MI6, Maggie or Cowley.

They followed Luke into the lounge, the small room filled with the late afternoon sun, barely an hour before sunset. The bright sunlight belied the cold winter day. Dust motes could be seen floating serenely in the sun beams. Luke stood in the shadows, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the darkened wall. He looked into the sunlight, one ray falling into a bright line across his face, making his dark blue eyes lighter, amethyst hints glinting in the azure depths.

“Reynolds lodged a complaint with Willis against Morris and Jenkins,” he said, not turning to look a the two CI5 men as they entered the room.

Doyle turned back to share a meaningful look with Bodie. “What kind of complaint?” he asked.

“He didn't like their methods. Didn't like their willingness to take only what they needed to prove what they wanted. Or to just make it all up if it suited their purpose.” The harsh, punched attack on each word betrayed Luke's underlying anger. He turned to them, a haunted look on his handsome face. “I thought we were the good guys?” he snapped. “I thought we were supposed to protect the innocent and fight for the right?”

Bodie held his breath, waiting for Doyle to say something about Luke's own peculiar brand of morality. He finally relaxed, relieved when the moment passed without comment.

“You've been a long time in this job to keep such naïve ideals,” Doyle said at last. “Haven't you seen enough of how Willis works?”

“Oh, and what about CI5?” Luke snapped, a sneer contorting his features. “By any means necessary, isn't it? All in the small print?”

“To keep this country smelling, even ever-so-slightly, of lavender and roses,” Bodie added with a lazy drawl. “Putting the wrong people behind bars doesn't keep crime off the streets. And Spooks like you are quite happy to fight fire with fire when dealing with foreign agencies.”

“That's different,” Luke snarled. “KGB, CIA, MI6 – we're all doing the same job. No right and wrong, just different sides.” He stared back out to the dying sun. “This is about getting someone who killed one of our own,” he continued. “That's nothing to do with national security or democracy. It's personal.”

“Where did all these scruples come from?” Doyle asked, his face contorting into a sneer. He still remembered the sight of Maggie in the garage, blood streaming from her back and arms, her wrists torn by the force of her struggles. He remember standing beside her bed in hospital, watching the blood drain back into her.

Bodie sighed. He might have guessed the truce wouldn't have lasted for long.

Luke pushed himself away from the wall, taking an angry step towards them before he managed to rein in his temper. Bodie watched, fascinated by the play of fury across the pale face as it shut down and froze over once more. It was so like Maggie, it was uncanny.

“I'll answer to Maggie,” Luke said, his voice soft and ice cold. “No-one else.” He stepped back once more, losing his air of poised attack, relaxing back into the calm, calculating predator. He reached into his jacket pocket, producing an audio tape in a plastic box. He threw it to Doyle without preamble. “Get Cowley to play that,” he said.

Doyle turned the unmarked box over in his long fingers. “What is it?”

“It's Willis telling me to use whatever means necessary to ensure Macklin or Maggie are fitted up,” Luke replied calmly. Doyle gave him a sharp look. He seemed far too calm for a man handing his career over on a plate.

“You recorded Willis?” Doyle asked carefully.

Luke nodded. “Since this whole thing started,” he said. “Just in case.” He leaned back against the wall. No matter how relaxed he looked, he always managed to retain a lazy elegance, his long, lithe limbs moving smoothly and easily.

“Reynolds was poisoned,” Bodie said, watching Luke for any reaction. The MI6 man simply sighed and lowered his head.

“The hip flask,” he said.

Bodie nodded. “Find the hip flask, we find the killer. Or one of them at least.”

“Willis has the stiletto. He's calling it the murder weapon.”

“Where did he get that?” Doyle asked, his green eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Luke gave him a tired smile. “They found it at Maggie and Macklin's home,” he said.

Doyle blinked, owlishly. “They searched Macklin's home?” he asked incredulously.

Bodie gave a bark of disbelieving laughter. “Willis really has it in for him, doesn't he?” he said ruefully. “I suppose it was one of the Magnificent Seven who found it.”

Luke nodded, his smile slipping. “Unlike Reynolds, they have no qualms about planting evidence.”

“Or beating a confession out of someone,” Bodie added darkly.

Luke pursed his lips, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. “I still say they'd be a complete idiot to even try laying a finger on Macklin.”

“Maybe,” Doyle agreed. “But they'd be an idiot to risk him staying alive long enough for someone to find out he's innocent.”

“Then we'd better hurry up,” Luke said sharply. “What did you find at Hughes' place?”

“Tin box,” Bodie replied. “Cowley's getting everything fingerprinted. Water-tight evidence.”

Luke nodded in approval. “So – we've got Reynolds' complaint against Morris and Jenkins. Someone poisoned Reynolds, stabbed him to cover the cause of death, planted the stiletto at Macklin's place.” He frowned in thought, his expression taking on a detached, far-away look as he considered the case. “What do we have on Hughes?”

“Nothing,” Doyle replied. “Not until Cowley opens that box.”

The dark blue eyes refocused on them. “Then we'd better hope it's something useful,” he said. He pushed himself upright from the wall, straightening his jacket smoothly. “I'm off to put pressure on Macklin,” he said ruefully.

Bodie pulled a face. “Rather you than me, mate,” he said sympathetically.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke left the apartment, striding towards his Astra, his thoughts far away. He'd handed over the recording he had made of Willis, knowing that in doing so, he was writing off his own career. There could be no excuse or forgiveness for such a betrayal, even though the greater betrayal was that of Willis himself. The secret service relied on the chain of command, and Luke had just stabbed his commanding officer in the back. He'd be lucky if Willis didn't authorise he be terminated with extreme prejudice.

Yet what choice had he? From the moment he'd been called to the scene of Reynolds' murder, he'd been aware of the overwhelming push to pin this on Macklin, or Maggie. Anywhere but MI6. He'd held on to the vain hope that he could, somehow, eventually persuade Willis of his mistake, but it had been made perfectly clear to him that Willis would never accept any other outcome than Macklin or Maggie's guilt.

And he couldn't do that. He couldn't stand back and watch an innocent man framed. Any man, but especially Macklin. And – yes – he had, in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, thought it might make up for the guilt he felt about Maggie. Guilt he'd never admit, not even to her.

Beyond all that, he wanted to know who had murdered a colleague. While he had conspired in the attempted murder of Maggie, he had been acting against someone who he believed considered herself beyond the Law. Someone who existed on the outskirts of society. She had been a valid target. He still believed that. He wasn't proud of the way he'd handled the situation, and he resented the lies he had been told by his own mother. But nevertheless, Magpie had committed crimes for which he'd thought, at the time, she should answer.

Reynolds may have been guilty of many things, but Luke had learned from his experience with his own sister that sometimes things were not as they seemed. Sometimes, the end justified the means. Willis framing someone for Reynolds' murder did not fit that description. It was simply lazy investigation, taking the obvious, easy route. And Luke did not believe that easy was necessary better.

As Bodie had said – fitting crimes to innocent people did not solve them. It exacerbated them.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the man sitting in the car opposite him, watching him intently.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Towser looked up as Willis entered the room. The smile on the MI6 man's face never reached the cold, dead eyes.

“I trust we haven't inconvenienced you with this room change?” Willis asked smoothly, all artificial concern and false camaraderie.

Towser did not even pretend to fall for the act, eyeing Willis with open dislike. He folded his arms across his muscular chest and leaned back in his chair.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said firmly.

Willis feigned hurt. “Oh now, Justin.” He smiled his shark smile. “You must realise I only have your best interests at heart.”

Towser's face hardened at Willis' casual use of his first name. “You haven't got a heart, Willis,” he growled, his deep bass voice heavy with sarcasm.

Willis' false smile froze. “Now, let's be reasonable,” he began, his silken voice smooth and calm. “I now have two murdered agents. And I know you can't have murdered them.” His smile thawed slightly. “All I'm asking is for your help in finding the person responsible.”

Towser tilted his head to one side, eyeing Willis with a patronising smile. “You're not interested in finding who's responsible,” he replied. “You just want to fit one of us up.”

Willis lost even the pretence of pleasantness. “Maggie Draven,” he said, his voice turning harsh. “She's the Magpie, isn't she?”

Towser's smile never faltered. “She's known as Magpie,” he agreed in a reasonable voice. “But if you mean the assassin known as Magpie, you're sorely mistaken.”

“Magpie specialised in locked room murders,” Willis continued, ignoring Towser's denial. “It stands to reason she's prime suspect in this.”

Towser frowned, leaning forward across the table, a look of mild curiosity and good-natured bemusement on his dark face. “Tell me, Willis,” he asked. “Have you ever employed the services of the Magpie?”

“And now another agent has died in suspicious circumstances, while she is at large,” Willis carried on. “So it can only be her.”

“Only, if you had,” Towser continued, playing Willis at his own game and ignoring his interruptions. “Then surely you would know what the Magpie looks like.” A slow grin spread across his face, his teeth very white against his dark skin. “Unless the Magpie managed to keep his identity from you as well as everyone else.”

“Maggie Draven is the Magpie,” Willis snarled, his temper finally snapping.

Towser leaned back in his chair, content to have rattled Willis' composure so easily. “The Magpie is a name given to whoever takes the job given by his handler,” Towser explained, as though speaking to a child. “Everyone knows that when the Magpie takes a job, the job is done. You're as good as dead. Magpie gets the credit for just about every difficult assassination of the last fifteen years.” His grin widened. “And you think it's all one person? All Maggie Draven?” He shook his head. “She'd probably be very pleased you're so confident of her abilities,” he said, a mocking glint in his eyes.

Willis' lips curled in a cruel mockery of a smile. “Oh everyone's very keen to sell me this notion that Draven isn't the Magpie,” he said, his voice falling into a deceptively gentle tone. “But I don't buy it.” He stood up, drumming his fingers lightly on the table top as he glared down at Towser. “And once I've got her here, I'll prove it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“It's a suicide note.” Cowley's voice was soft, almost gentle. He stared at the note he held in his hand, a photocopy of the original which now lay sheathed in a plastic wallet on his desk. “Forensics have checked the handwriting, the fingerprints – everything. And everything is documented.” He indicated the folder lying open on his desk, official documents neatly organised one on top of the other.

“He hid his suicide note?” Bodie asked.

Cowley looked over his dark framed glasses to fix Bodie with a hard stare. “Aye, laddie. He hid the duplicate.” His gaze fell back to the letter. “He explains here – 'I have left a note on the table beside me. If it is not there, you will know that someone has removed it, the same way they removed the evidence on Reynolds'.” He lowered the paper before removing his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“What else does he say?” Doyle asked.

Cowley gave him a weary look. “Everything,” he said. “Absolutely everything,” he added, his voice turning quiet with sad regret. “Ach, if only he'd come to me,” he said, almost to himself. “Wasted life, just wasted.” He shook his head, before replacing his glasses and turning back to the note.

“He mentions a suspect – Geoffrey Harris. The man died in custody seven months ago. Jenkins and Morris kept him awake for 72 hours straight. The man had a weak heart. Between the two of them, the exhaustion, the panic – it induced a heart attack.” He fixed them with a hard look. “He died because they withheld medical attention. They later managed to fix all the evidence so that Harris was blamed for the misappropriation of agency funds. Funds which Hughes suspected ended up lining Jenkins and Morris' own pockets.” He threw the photocopied letter across the desk towards them, as though touching the paper itself contaminated him in some way.

“What about Reynolds?” Bodie asked, reaching to pick up the copy letter, scanning the neatly written document.

“Hughes didn't know anything about the murder until afterwards,” Cowley explained. “His surprise was genuine when he found the body. Morris said he'd heard a commotion and talked Hughes into kicking in the door. But it was Morris who got to the body first.”

“So Morris had the stiletto.” Bodie was not asking a question.

Cowley nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “Dirty business,” he added, his face prim with distaste. “When Hughes asked about the hip flask later, he was told to keep quiet. Both he and Taylor asked questions from the outset, and both men were threatened by Morris, Jenkins and Short. Taylor told him he saw Jenkins give Reynolds a silver hip flask when they left the rifle ranges, on their way back to their rooms.”

“The poison,” Doyle said.

“Aye.” Cowley removed his glasses again, placing them on top of the papers on his desk before sitting back in his chair. The old man's face seemed grey, the lines more prominent on the rugged features. “Short removed the hip flask when he went back to the scene of crime. Apparently, there was an argument because Jenkins forgot to recover the item when he found the body. Hughes overheard some of the disagreement.”

“And he's put all that in the note?” Doyle asked, his green eyes narrowing shrewdly.

“He has,” Cowley said. “And he says he put a letter to be found beside his body.”

Bodie put the copy letter back on Cowley's desk. “We need that hip flask,” he said.

“Let's get to Short, then,” Doyle agreed. “Before Willis gets too comfortable.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin's steel-blue eyes showed no flicker of recognition or relaxation as Luke entered the room. Despite the nightmares, despite the few things Maggie had said about him, Luke still had no greater understanding of what made Macklin tick. It seemed the more information he got, the greater the enigma.

Willis saw Macklin's relationship with Maggie as a weakness, but Luke wasn't so sure. While he was in no doubt that Macklin would worry about Maggie if she fell into Willis' hands, Luke wasn't convinced that a worried Macklin would be easier to deal with. If anything, he thought it would only make Macklin angry.

Luke took the chair opposite Macklin, loosening his jacket as he slid into the uncomfortable seat. He smoothed his tie down automatically before resting his hands on the table top, his long fingers laced together.

“Now what?” Macklin sounded bored, his clipped, precise tones sharp with irritation.

No – Luke really didn't want to make Macklin angry. Unfortunately, he had little choice in the matter.

“Last chance,” he said. Macklin raised his eyebrows at Luke's words, but made no comment. “Co-operate, and make it easy for yourself. Continue to deny your guilt, and we will have no alternative but to use whatever means necessary to coerce you.”

Macklin's mouth twitched in a smile. “Coerce?” he repeated mockingly. “And just how do you plan on doing that?”

Luke held Macklin's gaze unflinchingly, his own expression just as frozen and fixed. He paused, allowing Macklin's curiosity to build.

“We have Maggie Draven in custody.”

He couldn't have anticipated the speed with which Macklin moved, the way the calm face contorted in sudden rage. Only the table prevented Macklin from reaching him as he lunged towards him, as though unaware of its solid presence between them. Luke's own reflexes were far from slow, but although he slid from the restraints of the metal chair and away from Macklin in the blink of an eye, he knew that only the table had actually saved him.

Macklin glared at him, his hands gripping the sides of the table as though prepared to wrench it free from the bolts that held it down. The dark blue eyes flashed angrily as he stared up through the long golden lashes, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a furious grimace.

“You'd better be lying,” he snarled viciously.

Luke tried to hide his unease at finding himself caged with a hostile Macklin. “Why would I lie?” he replied. “She couldn't hide forever.”

A flicker crossed Macklin's face. He didn't know whether Luke was lying or telling the truth, and Luke had no way of letting him know, not with Willis breathing down his neck. Luke had to keep in Willis' good graces at all costs. Without that, he might lose vital information that would lead him to Reynolds' killers.

But one wrong comment from Macklin could land him in deeper trouble.

Luke stared into the glittering depths of Macklin's intense gaze, and willed him to see the truth.

“What game are you playing, Peterson?” Macklin snapped.

“No games,” Luke lied. “The time for games is over.” He rapped on the door, and Macklin frowned, understanding the signal to a guard outside to open the door. He was under guard now. Luke moved aside as the door opened. “Ask yourself this, Macklin,” he said, pausing in the open doorway. “What do you think Magpie will do to guarantee your freedom? What will you do to guarantee hers?”

Luke left the room quickly, Macklin's roar of fury following him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The man in the white RS2000 seemed intent on the A-Z in front of him as Short walked past with barely a glance. Doyle buried his head in the book, peering over the top as he watched Short walk through pools of amber lights, his breath gusting like smoke in the cold night air. The MI6 man walked down the road before turning left into the main street.

“Okay, he's gone.”

Bodie straightened up from the back seat, opening the passenger door to slide out from the back of the car, as Doyle got out of the driver's seat. They glanced up and down the road to double-check before crossing the street. The approach to the flats was a neat tarmac path. Squares of grass, patchy in the cold winter weather and showing silvery in the beginning of a frost, lay on either side of the black strip.

“If he's got rid of that flask, we're screwed,” Doyle said as he expertly picked the security lock to gain entrance to the foyer.

Bodie pulled a face, agreeing with the assessment, following his partner through the glass doors and on to the lift. They rode up to the top floor of the four storey block. Bodie peered out cautiously from the lift, checking the route was clear, before both men strode purposefully to the door of Short's flat.

“Okay?” Bodie gave his partner a questioning look as Doyle cast a professional eye over the lock.

Doyle quirked his head to one side. “Dunno how long we'll have before the heavies turn up.”

Bodie shrugged, a rueful smile twisting the chiselled lips. “We're on a mission from Cowley,” he intoned solemnly.

Doyle serious expression broke into his chip-toothed grin as he gave a filthy chuckle. His features settled into a picture of absorbed single-minded study as he worked the barrels of the lock expertly, his lips pulled back in a grimace. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face scrunching up into a mass of lines and crinkles, before he gave a sigh, opening his eyes again as his tongue appeared between his full lips, sticking out in an unconscious display of intense concentration.

Finally, he glanced up at his partner. Bodie raised his eyebrows in expectation, receiving a quick nod from Doyle in reply. In unspoken agreement, Doyle opened the door and both men slid quickly inside.

The flashing red light from the alarm was the only warning that they were on limited time. They didn't bother trying to disconnect it; it would serve no purpose. Instead, they worked in perfect tandem, Bodie going left to search the rooms leading from the corridor as Doyle went right. Methodically and expertly, they ransacked the rooms, giving no thought to hiding their presence. Lounge, kitchen and bathroom were disposed of with disciplined speed and efficiency. Hall cupboard and both bedrooms were next.

“Bodie!” Doyle's cry brought his partner crashing through the door into the bedroom. Doyle knelt in front of the emptied wardrobe, a silver hip flask glinting in his hand as he gave a triumphant grin.

They froze as they heard the front door slam open, both men drawing their weapons immediately. Doyle slipped the hip flask into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, getting to his feet smoothly. They exchanged glances, half-nods and flickering eye movements comprising an entire series of questions and answers immediately received and understood between them.

Bodie listened intently from his position beside the bedroom door. Judging his moment with pinpoint accuracy, he leapt out just in time to slam into Short as he tried to make a surprise entrance. The two men barrelled into the hallway, Doyle following behind, keeping a watchful eye for any backup Short may have brought, and ensuring Bodie had the upper hand.

It wasn't an equal contest. Short was well trained, fit and athletic. But Bodie was a bar-room brawler honed to perfection by years of Army training and Macklin polish. Realising he was fighting a losing battle, Short marshalled all his effort into pushing Bodie away from him. Bodie stumbled backwards into the bedroom, grabbing onto the door-frame to steady himself, using his strong arms to pull him forward again and propel him after Short as the MI6 man dived for the open front door.

Doyle cleared the rubble of the hallway in a long-legged leap, landing sure-footedly to sprint after the escaping MI6 man, Bodie only half a stride behind him.

Short, pushed into panic by the sudden appearance of CI5 men in his apartment, headed for the nearest stairs, leading up to the roof. Bodie powered up the stairs after him as Doyle hung back to radio through to control.

“4-5 to Alpha. We've got the flask. Short's making a run for it.”

“Be aware, MI6 are mobilising.” Cowley's voice crackled through the R/T. Doyle pulled a face, running up the stairs after his partner.

“Send some bloody back up then!” he snarled, cutting off the transmission abruptly as he raced to catch up with Bodie.

He burst out of the artificial light of the hallway into the amber street-light of the cold winter evening. He looked around the flat rooftop, his breath visible as white mist in the freezing night air.

“Short!”

Bodie's shout had Doyle whirling around to follow the direction of the sound, his feet moving automatically to follow his partner. He turned the corner of the brick elevator housing to find Bodie standing a few feet away from Short, who teetered precariously on the edge of the building.

Short turned to face them, his heels twitching over thin air. A maniacal grin contorted his face, the amber glow of street-lights combining with the silvery moonlight to turn his expression into a carnival mask grimace, a caricature of humanity.

“Bloody Goody Two Shoes bastard,” Short snarled, the glint in his eyes barely sane, hysteria in his high-pitched voice. “Couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. No. He had to go mouthing off to Willis, didn't he?” Saliva flecked his lips, frothing and spitting as he spoke.

“Yeah, but all you did was move the flask,” Bodie said, his voice calm and reasonable against the desperation of Short. “You're small fry, mate. It's Jenkins and Morris who're the guilty ones.”

Short laughed, a bark of feverish insanity. “And what happens to me? Look at what they did to Reynolds? Do you seriously think it'll be any different?”

“Course it will,” Doyle said firmly, lending his voice to support his partner. “Cowley will see to it.”

Short shook his head. “No,” he howled. “No-one. Nothing.”

Bodie and Doyle dived forward as Short stepped back into fresh air. The two CI5 men stared over the edge of the building in horror at the figure sprawled across the bonnet of the car parked beneath.

“Oh fuck,” Doyle breathed, his shoulders slumping in disgust.

Bodie reached out to grasp his partner's elbow, indicating further up the street as soon as Doyle glanced up to meet his gaze. Two cars screeched around the corner, pulling up in front of the apartment block with a squeal of tyres and brakes.

“Looks like the cavalry's arrived,” Bodie said.

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed, his voice harsh. “Too fucking late though, isn't it?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Hands lightly resting on the leather steering wheel of the Astra, Luke hurled the car at breakneck speeds through the London streets, the blue light flashing rhythmically on his dashboard along to the siren howling around him. The call had come through that Short's apartment had been broken into, and Luke could only think of one good reason why that would be. He had to get there before the CI5 men were over-run with MI6.

The tyres squealed as he threw the car around the bend in the road, the car travelling sideways a few feet before the wheels regained traction to propel the car forward again. A sudden movement caught his attention from the apartment block, and he saw the body plummet to the ground, slamming into the windscreen and bonnet of the Porsche parked beneath the building with a sickening, muffled thud. Ahead of him, two other cars turned the corner with the same destination in mind. With grim determination, Luke gunned the accelerator, twisting the wheel and slamming on the handbrake to bring the car sliding horizontally to a stop in front of the entrance to the building.

He was out of the car with his ID in one hand and his Beretta in the other before the first car pulled to a stop. He hid his relief when he realised that no-one getting out of the cars was any one of the six men left who had been on training with Reynolds.

He pointed to the tall blond man who was first to reach him. “You come with me. The rest of you stay down here, cordon off that body, and make sure no-one touches anything.” He caught sight of Doyle's white RS2000 parked further down the street, and prayed the body smashed against the Porsche wasn't Bodie or Doyle.

Too impatient for the lift, he let his long legs carry him up the stairs with unrelenting speed, not bothering to wait and see whether the man following him could keep up the pace. He heard the rapid patter of footsteps coming down the stairs towards him, and paused, waiting until they got nearer, before turning the corner, his Beretta held steadily at shoulder height.

Bodie's Browning and Doyle's SIG were aimed unerringly at him in return.

He took in the sight of the two men, noticing they were uninjured, and gave a relieved sigh, too tired to even bother trying to hide his relief.

“What have you got?” he asked, his dark blue eyes glittering. He needed to know.

“Hughes committed suicide,” Doyle replied. “He hid his suicide note. It told everything.”

Luke stared at him, his expression frozen in shock. Doyle's words finally penetrated Luke's tired, stressed mind. A smile broke out across his handsome features, a short laugh of pure relief escaping his lips.

“It's over, then,” he breathed, his eyes sparkling. “It's fucking over.” He turned, leaning back against the wall, allowing it to take his weight as the sheer relief flooded through him.

“Not yet, it's not,” Doyle said sharply. “Not til Macklin and Towser are out.”

Luke's grin of delight faded, replaced by serious consideration as he realised the truth of Doyle's words. He stood up again, replacing his gun in his holster. “You're right,” he allowed.

The three men turned sharply, alarmed as the blond MI6 man following Luke finally caught up with him. Luke stepped between him and the CI5 men as the man held his gun on them.

“Lower your weapon,” he instructed. “They're CI5.”

The man hesitated. “Sir?” he asked. MI6 were not used to consorting with CI5 quite so easily.

Luke took a step closer. “I said lower it,” he said, his voice firmer. “It's under control. Get back downstairs and help organise the clean-up.”

The man finally lowered his gun, returning it to his holster, although he eyed the two CI5 men suspiciously. “What next?” he asked Luke.

Luke took a deep breath, prepared to see the whole thing through to the end. “I'm going back with them to see their controller, then reporting back to Willis. Ensure complete radio silence about this. Nothing is to get back to HQ until I've spoken to Cowley and Willis.” His firm voice brooked no argument. “Do you understand?”

The man nodded. “Sir,” he agreed, before turning on his heel and jogging back down the stairs.

Luke waited until the rhythmical sound of his footsteps died away. “You've got about an hour to ninety minutes to get to Cowley and get what you need,” he said, fixing Bodie and Doyle with a sharp gaze. “I'll keep the lid on this until I've spoken to you.”

“That's remarkably helpful of you,” Bodie said silkily.

Luke's eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Look,” he said, his voice lowering to a soft hiss. “Just in case you misunderstood, I really don't give a shit about either one of you or what you think. I'm not known for my patience, and I've given you far more slack than I'd allow anyone else.” The dark blue eyes glittered angrily. “Get off my fucking back. I don't give a fuck whether you trust me or not. I don't give a fuck whether you like me or not. But I've had enough with the snide comments.” He turned his back on them, making his way down the stairs. “Just do your fucking jobs and I'll do mine.”

“Your job is framing Macklin,” Doyle called after the retreating figure.

Luke stopped on the stairs, his back rigid. He did not turn back to face them. “Doyle,” he said, calmly. “Fuck off.” Without another word, he continued down the stairs.

“Charming that,” Bodie said quietly. He looked at Doyle and gave a jerk of his head to indicate Doyle should go first. “After you, sunshine,” he added. “Let's go and give the Cow a late Christmas present.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie moved around the flat with complete ease despite the darkness. The light from the city outside gave everything an eerie dull amber glow. Accustomed to the layout and her night vision adjusted to the dim light, she could negotiate the whole place without requiring any artificial light except in the windowless bathroom.

She added another mug beside her own when she heard the front door close after the sound of the boiling kettle died away. All she had been able to do all day was drink coffee and wander the flat. She thought one more coffee might just push her over the edge, but the dull monotony of making the drink at least provided some sense of purpose, no matter how trivial. Even if she left the coffee to cool, untouched, at least it gave her something to do.

She padded through to the lounge on bare feet, carefully carrying the two steaming mugs.

The unmistakable sibilant click of a semi automatic slide chambering a bullet alerted her. She looked up to the tall silhouette outlined by the light from the windows. Although she could not make out his features in the stark contrast of light and dark, she knew that the broader frame was not Luke.

She froze in the doorway.

“Well, well.” Saunders' voice drawled mockingly in the shadows. “Now isn't this a complete fucking shock?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin curled perfectly time after time, his muscles moving effortlessly as he went through the repetitive exercise. His arms were pumped from his exertions, the muscles tight and corded. His washboard flat stomach flexed and stretched smoothly as he pulled himself up before letting himself back down to the floor slowly. His thigh muscles bunched and contracted, the tight jeans failing to disguise the sleek motion.

From the privacy of the observation room, hidden behind the two-way mirror, the two MI6 agents watched in appreciative silence. The red-haired woman sighed, her blue eyes glittering with something almost like hunger.

“Fuck me sideways,” she breathed.

The dark haired woman beside her sucked thoughtfully on her lollipop. “I know,” she agreed.

“There's guys here half his age who don't look like that,” the red-haired woman said, her eyes never leaving the lithe, long-limbed figure of Macklin.

The dark-haired woman's eyes widened as she nodded. She removed the lollipop from her mouth, but her unblinking gaze never wavered. “I know,” she repeated, running the wet lollipop over her lips unconsciously.

“They reckon he murdered Greg Reynolds.”

The dark-haired woman shrugged, unconcerned. “I don't care if he murdered the Prime Minister,” she said. “I still would.”

Her friend nodded thoughtfully. “Me too.”

The door opened, startling them both as David Jenkins entered the room.

“I'm here to take the next watch,” he announced.

The dark-haired woman frowned suspiciously. “We've only been here an hour,” she replied.

Jenkins stepped forward, his manner quietly threatening. “Darrow, isn't it?” he said softly, his eyes narrowing questioningly. The dark-haired woman nodded. Jenkins gave a cold smile. “Well, Darrow,” he continued smoothly. “Unless you want to be dragged in to see Willis to find out why you were questioning a senior officer, I suggest you fuck off and powder your nose somewhere else.”

Darrow blinked slowly, the lollipop now clenched firmly between her teeth as she struggled to contain her anger. “Well,” she said coldly. “Jenkins, isn't it?” She stepped towards him, even though it forced her to acknowledge his greater height as she tilted her head back to glare at him angrily. She removed the lollipop, licking her lips. “It's easy to see why you haven't had a shag for over a decade.”

Her red-haired friend stepped closer to stand beside her. “Not without having to pay for it, anyway,” she added caustically.

The two women strode from the room, their movements betraying their fury. Jenkins waited until he heard their footsteps fade in the distance before flicking open the tape recorder that ran constantly, recording everything in the room next door.

He watched Macklin continue his exercises, sleek and precise, each flex and pull elegant and exact. Jenkins' face hardened as he gently dragged a penknife over the fragile surface of the tape, waiting until the slight tension from the recorder caused the weakness to snag, pulling the plastic for a split second, before it surrendered to the resistance and snapped. The cogs of the tape machine continued to whir and turn, but the tape hung useless, recording nothing.

Jenkins allowed himself a tight self-satisfied smile before turning and leaving the room, locking the door behind him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin paused in mid sit-up as the door to his cell opened. The steel-blue eyes watched suspiciously as Jenkins, Taylor and Morris entered the room. He got to his feet, moving towards the centre of the room, instinctively allowing himself room to manoeuvre. The old wily warrior was too wise to be trapped in a corner by three less experienced fighters. He eyed Taylor and Morris as they moved either side of him. Jenkins closed the door, leaning against it with a predatory smile.

“Time's up, Macklin,” he said quietly.

Macklin glanced at Taylor, noting the sheen of sweat on the young agent's face and the brittle look of fear in his eyes. “What's going on?” he asked calmly. His gaze switched to Morris as the man replied.

“No more messing about,” he said. “Maggie Draven is outside, and if you don't co-operate, there's going to be an unfortunate lethal shooting as she tries to escape.”

Macklin did not flinch, none of the sudden fear twisting his gut apparent in his expression. “You're lying,” he said firmly, needing to believe he was right.

Jenkins' smile widened, but his eyes were cruel. “Not a chance,” he said. He folded his arms across his chest, his smile relaxed and confident. “Peterson should have already told you. At least, Willis told him to tell you.”

Cold doubt crept through Macklin's veins. He stared into the grey eyes of Jenkins, trying to find any flicker of uncertainty or deception. “You expect me to believe Maggie would be outside and be quiet about it?”

Jenkins gave a harsh laugh. “Oh we're not stupid, Macklin,” he replied smoothly. “For one thing, she's still groggy from the drug, but just to be sure, she's gagged and handcuffed. She's not going anywhere except where we want her.”

Jenkins' poker face gave nothing away. Macklin's uncertainty grew.

“Let me see her then,” he said, keeping his voice firm but reasonable.

Morris shook his head slowly. “Oh no,” he said softly. “No tender farewells for you, mate. If you want us to leave her alone, then you'll do the one thing that will end this whole sorry saga.”

“And what's that?” Macklin asked.

Morris brought his hand from behind his back, displaying the coiled rope he had concealed from Macklin's sight as he had entered the room.

Macklin eyed the rope with a sinking feeling but maintained his stance, weight perfectly balanced ready for attack or defence. “And what will that prove?” he demanded, looking from one man to the other.

“Depends,” Jenkins replied with an easy shrug. “For Draven, it will prove, once and for all, what she means to you. For Willis, it will prove your guilt in Reynolds' murder.”

Macklin's blue eyes glittered cold and hateful as he glared at Jenkins. “You murdered Reynolds,” he said with absolute certainty.

Jenkins smiled calmly. “Of course,” he agreed. “Well,” he corrected himself with a brief shrug. “We murdered him. That is, collectively.”

Macklin threw a disgusted look towards Taylor. “And you? Barely in the Service twelve months, and you murder a fellow agent?”

“Not me,” Taylor stammered. “I didn't.”

“Accessory after the fact,” Macklin snarled. “You may as well have stabbed him yourself.”

Jenkins pushed himself away from the door, his hands falling to his sides. “But there's no evidence, Macklin. Nothing.” The silken voice was soft, almost gentle. “We made sure of that. And Willis is so very keen for it to be you, or Draven.” He gave a cruel smile. “We're giving you the chance to sacrifice yourself to save the woman you love,” he said, his voice a mocking attempt at logical persuasion. “You should thank us really.”

Macklin stepped sharply back as Morris moved to the fixed chair, lacing the rope through the bars of the seat until the noose hung precisely along the back. All Macklin had to do was kneel, place his head in that noose, and drop forward. His own body weight would tighten the rope around his throat, strangulating him in minutes. Prison style suicide.

“Either you do it, or Draven dies.” Jenkins' voice, harsh and uncompromising, cut through Macklin's thoughts.

“You're bluffing.”

“Bet your life on that?” Jenkins replied sharply. “Do you bet hers?” He glanced at Taylor, jerking his head to the man in unspoken instruction. Taylor glanced at Macklin, licking his lips nervously, before drawing his Browning and leaving the room.

Macklin watched for any sign of deceit or pretence, but the stony gaze of Morris gave nothing away. Jenkins watched with an expression of wry amusement, calm assurance in his manner.

“Let me see her,” Macklin asked again, ashamed of the subtle note of desperation in his voice.

Jenkins' smile broadened. “Not a chance,” he said viciously. “What's it going to be?”

Macklin eyed the rope hesitantly. “And what guarantee do I have that you'll let her go if I do kill myself?” he demanded.

Jenkins shook his head. “None whatsoever,” he said smoothly. “But we wouldn't have any need for her. No evidence to implicate us, and a perfect scapegoat with you – why would we risk any further suspicion by doing anything to her?”

Macklin licked his dry lips, his thoughts running like wildfire. He had no idea whether Peterson had lied to him earlier. He had hoped it was nothing more than an act to placate Willis, to perform the usual mind-games that he would expect from the MI6 controller. But these men were so certain, so calm and so assured, he wasn't sure any more.

Maybe Maggie was outside that door now, drugged and gagged, with Taylor holding a gun to her head. Macklin could almost see it in his mind's eye, even though the image of Maggie chained and gagged made him sick with anger and concern in equal measure.

Maybe it was an elaborate bluff, a last desperate play before the evidence gathered against Jenkins and his friends.

But could Macklin risk it?

He shook his head, making up his mind in an instant. White hot hate spat in his blue eyes as he glared at Jenkins.

“Go to hell,” he snarled.

Jenkins looked surprised, but to Macklin's growing horror, he didn't look angry or frustrated. “Are you absolutely sure?” he asked.

“Fuck you, Jenkins,” Macklin thundered.

Jenkins shrugged as though unconcerned by Macklin's refusal to play along. “So be it,” he said calmly. “I must admit, I expected better. Maybe romance truly is dead.” He opened the door slightly, enough to look outside. “Do it,” he said. “Shoot her.”

The sound of two gun shots echoed through the corridor. The soft groan that followed the sharp double blast broke Macklin's heart.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

Bodie and Doyle saw the bustle of ambulances and squad cars as they left the block of flats. The blond man Luke had instructed to start the clean up stood, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long black overcoat, as he marshalled the arriving police and agents. They flashed their IDs to the police woman stationed at the cordon around the building, giving her a sympathetic smile as she blew on her cold hands and nodded for them to pass through.

Doyle unlocked the RS but hesitated before getting into the car, leaning on the roof as he looked down the street back to the apartments and the bustle of police. Bodie gave him an expectant look, waiting to be let into the car.

“What now?” he asked.

Doyle pulled at his bottom lip with his finger and thumb, playing with the full lip thoughtfully. “I bloody hope this is all Cowley needs,” he said at last, his expressive face tired and drawn.

Bodie sighed, his eyebrows arching as he pressed his lips together firmly and nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Borrowed time, isn't it?”

The two men exchanged meaningful looks, knowing the doubts and fears that plagued the other. Doyle got into the car, reaching to open the passenger door to allow his partner to get in without voicing his concerns. Neither one wanted to be the one to say it, but although this recent turn of events meant they were closer to getting all the evidence needed to free Macklin and Towser, it was also making their situation more dangerous. The men who would frighten two MI6 agents into suicide, and who would murder a colleague and happily lay the blame on an innocent man, would not sit idly by and let the whole case fall down around their ears.

Bodie was right; they were on borrowed time. Now, more than ever, the danger loomed that Macklin and Towser may encounter some kind of accident whilst in custody. If that happened, it wouldn't matter whether they had evidence of their innocence or not; they would be deemed guilty post mortem.

They had to pray Cowley had enough, and that they still had time.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin stood, frozen with sudden doubt. He had been so sure, so certain, right up until the sound of the double gun shot, and especially the soft, breathless gasp that had followed. Macklin knew the sound a body made as it released its final breath; he knew the sound of a dead body as it slumped to the floor.

He had been so sure, right up to that point.

“You're bluffing,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Jenkins gave a harsh laugh, moving out of the room. Macklin took a step towards the door, desperate to know for sure, but the snub nosed revolver in Morris' hand made him stop.

“Your fault,” Morris said, a mocking parody of sympathy on his face. “Your decision.”

Macklin glared at him. “You wouldn't dare,” he snarled.

Morris looked unimpressed by the threat. “Why shouldn't we?” he sneered. “Willis will believe whatever we tell him, because it's what he wants to hear.”

Macklin could not fault the truth of that. Again, doubt rose strong inside him, his emotions threatening to confound his logic and his training.

Jenkins reappeared from the hallway, a cloth bundled in his hand. He threw the black fabric onto the table. Macklin blinked slowly, reaching for the cloth as his beleaguered mind searched for its significance.

“Something for you to remember her by.” Jenkins' parting shot took a split second to register with Macklin. By the time it had, the two MI6 men had left the room. The sound of the door locking seemed unnaturally loud.

He stared at the material in his hand, recognising it as a shirt, one of his own – although ownership of it had been in constant dispute between him and Maggie. She had loved the feel of the soft brushed cotton, although the shirt was undeniably far too big for her. It was a game they played; she would wander the house, wearing only the over-sized shirt after a shower or a bath, and he would complain that she had ransacked his wardrobe again.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of her, lying dead in a pool of her own blood. It had to be a trick, else why not just shoot her in front of him?

If it had been Willis offering the ultimatum, Macklin would have had no doubt it was a lie. Just the sort of sly trick Willis would attempt. Willis would bluff. But Macklin wasn't sure about Jenkins. Jenkins was treacherous. A man deceitful enough to plan the convoluted murder of Reynolds would play psychological games in a much more devious manner.

Let Macklin see her – let him witness her death – and anger may have over-ruled grief. But this – this insidious doubt, this questioning of himself – would undermine his will, destroy his confidence. Not knowing was a far greater torture than knowing.

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood that always signalled Maggie to him rose from the material. He ran his hand over the still warm cotton, and frowned as he felt dampness.

He stared at his hands, at the red colour staining them, realising the black shirt was soaked in it. Soaked in blood.

“Oh God.” His voice cracked and broke in a helpless whisper as he fell to his knees in the middle of the room, staring at the blood on his hands. He didn't care about MI6, didn't care about Willis, or Towser, or even himself.

Maggie was dead.

Some instinct, some part of his brain still able to operate at least on a basic level, made him look up. Look at the chair opposite him, and the blue nylon rope, twisted into a noose, that still hung from the chair back.

Maggie was dead.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke pulled up abruptly outside his apartment block. He knew he had to move fast. His gut instincts screamed at him that time was running out, although he had no logical reason to suspect it.

His mind ran through the possibilities – he was intelligent, well-trained. He knew how the agents' minds worked. He had always had to be a step ahead at the best of times, hiding his past, his mother's obsession, even his sister's murders. Over the last three days, he had had to dance ahead of Willis and the whole of MI6, to second-guess CI5, and try to at least keep up with Cowley's triple think.

It had all been a very tall order, but if he was capable of that, he was certainly capable of second-guessing the murderers of Reynolds.

He strode through the foyer, his mind full of all the evidence and subterfuge of the last few days. He ignored the lift, allowing the rhythm of his footsteps up the stairs drive his thoughts.

What would they do to ensure suspicion remained on Macklin? What would close the investigation immediately?

Luke hesitated mid-step, his foot hovering above the next stair.

Suicide.

If Macklin or Towser committed suicide, the whole thing would close straightaway. Hughes would be an unrelated suicide, and MI6 would have a clean record.

Luke continued up the stairs, shaking his head to dismiss the notion. Macklin wouldn't commit suicide, and no manner of threats would induce him to try.

Except Luke had told him they had Maggie in custody.

“Shit.” The curse exploded out of him harshly as he started to sprint up the stairs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“What are you doing here?” Maggie demanded. Plots and counter-plots flashed through her mind – Saunders was too far away for her to reach, even if she threw the boiling hot coffee towards him. But it might just provide sufficient distraction.

“Well, I was here for Peterson,” Saunders replied calmly. The gun never wavered, pointing at her with deadly accuracy. Despite the friendly tone of his voice, Saunders meant business.

“What for?”

Saunders edged away from the windows, falling into softer lighting, allowing her to make out the outline of the PPK he carried, the suppressor doubling the length of the gun.

“Why do you think?” he replied.

She blinked, her thoughts firing rapidly. He could be here for any reason, including that Luke had betrayed her. It wouldn't be entirely out of character, or – if she was honest – much of a shock if he had. Yet she doubted it, even as she cursed herself for a gullible fool.

“One more dead agent to throw the scent off us,” Hughes continued, his previous question obviously rhetorical. Or perhaps he simply wasn't interested in her reply. She couldn't tell.

Saunders grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “Of course, now it's even better,” he carried on. “Now, I have the prime suspect in the apartment of an MI6 agent.” He gave a short, breathy laugh. “Obviously, I saw you entering Peterson's apartment, and followed. Sadly too late to prevent you from shooting Peterson. And although I gave you the opportunity to surrender, you resisted, and I had to shoot you in self-defence.”

Maggie stepped forward slowly, keeping her movements steady and relaxed. “That's very neat,” she said, her tone reasonable. She gave a slight shrug. “Maybe too neat, though.”

“Who cares?” Saunders replied, his voice turning harsh, losing the mocking tone. “With Macklin and you dead, the case is closed.”

Maggie froze, suddenly oblivious to the man, the gun, or anything else. “What did you say?” she breathed.

Saunders grinned again. “Oh yes,” he said smoothly. “Any moment now, I should think. Macklin will be overcome with guilt, and be found hanging in his cell.” His face creased into a contemptuous look of fake concern. “So sad.”

Maggie did not wait to think twice about what he had said; she didn't stop to think about logic or consequence. She dropped to the floor, letting go of a mug of coffee as she threw one arm forward into a roll. Saunders pulled the trigger in panic, the muffled sound of the suppressed gun echoing strangely around the apartment. Maggie ignored the splashes of scalding liquid, adjusting her grip on the mug that remained in her grasp. She landed, legs splayed, at Saunders' feet, immediately spinning on her bent leg and knocking him to the floor with her straightened leg. She pounced on his gun, holding his hand to the floor as she slammed the mug into his forearm, feeling the ceramic shatter against his bone. He screamed, instantly releasing the PPK. He reached across with his other hand, grabbing her throat and squeezing her windpipe. She dropped a knee onto his right arm, reaching to grab the hand at her throat in her left hand as her right fist curled and punched him hard in between his legs.

He howled, releasing her immediately as he curled in on his pain. Leaning on his right forearm, her weight firmly on the knee that pinned his arm to the floor, she twisted, bringing her other leg across his throat, her shin lying across his windpipe. She adjusted her weight deliberately, grinding bone against bone in his forearm with her knee, and slowly crushing his larynx with her shin. His left hand flailed uselessly as she held it in a seemingly delicate grip. Her finger and thumb carefully caught the nerve in his hand, effectively paralysing his left hand. He struggled, his legs kicking uselessly. All he succeeded in doing was shifting her weight further onto his throat.

She stared down impassively, watching with a kind of detached interest as he gasped for air, his eyes wide and watering. He brought his knees up, bunting her off him roughly. She rolled on her shoulder, landing cat-like and swinging her leg around, aiming for his head as he tried to scramble to his feet. He blocked her kick with one arm, grabbing her ankle to prevent her kicking him again. Instead, she scissored both legs together, smashing his head between her lower legs. He released her with a shout, clutching his head in both hands in pain. It left him distracted and momentarily defenceless. She jabbed ruthlessly with her foot, kicking him hard in the centre of his gut, throwing him back with the force of the impact. He lay gasping for air on the floor, his hands clutching his stomach, as she picked up his PPK and got to her feet.

“I don't have to shoot to kill,” she said, her voice curiously quiet. She sounded almost bored, as though his life or death held no consequence to her in the slightest. “Kneecaps are so stereotypical, but nevertheless, they are effective.”

Saunders coughed, his breathing hoarse and rasping. “You wouldn't dare,” he snarled.

She laughed. “Oh dear, you really have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?” she asked, her smile and cheerful voice at odds with the cold look in her eyes.

She turned, throwing herself to one side, as the front door opened to admit Luke. His Beretta pointed straight at her. Brother and sister stared at each other, open distrust in both pairs of violet eyes. A sudden movement from Saunders tore her attention away from Luke, diving backwards to lie flat on her back as the knife Saunders had flung glinted in the dim light. It skimmed across the top of her, barely missing her. Luke turned his gun towards the man, glaring down at him, the muscles in his jaw tight with anger.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Luke demanded.

Saunders gave a harsh laugh. “Me?” he exclaimed. “What the fuck is Magpie doing in your flat?”

Maggie got to her feet, watching both men warily. “He said he came to kill you,” she said cautiously.

Luke never took his eyes off Saunders. “Is that so?” he said. “Sorry to disappoint him.”

Saunders gathered himself together, standing up slowly. “Look, there's got to be a reasonable resolution to this.”

Maggie stepped forward quickly, standing behind him and pressing the cold barrel of the PPK hard against his head. He flinched at the discomfort, grunting in pain as she grabbed the junction of his neck and shoulder in her other hand and pinched the nerves. She pushed against the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees in front of her.

“You said you were going to force Macklin to hang himself,” she said, her voice strangely calm and distant. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger right now.”

Saunders gave a nervous laugh. “Come on. We both know you won't do that.”

Luke stared down at him, shaking his head slowly. “You really don't know the Magpie at all, do you?” he said gently. “She'd kill you and not even notice.”

Saunders met Luke's glittering gaze, assessing whether it was bravado or dramatics that made him sound so certain. All he saw was simple truth. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “Come on, Luke,” he said, smiling despite his growing disquiet. “How are you going to explain to Willis that you've got Magpie in your flat?” A look of understanding crossed his face. “Oh I get it,” he said slowly, a sly, cunning look in his eye. “An affair of the heart, eh?” He gave a lewd chuckle. “Very neat.”

“You've got a clean record,” Luke said, ignoring the crude innuendo. “What are you doing protecting Jenkins and the others?”

Saunders blinked in genuine confusion. “That's the whole point,” he said. “I've got a clean record, and I want it to stay that way. Reynolds would have spoiled all that.”

“And Hughes?” Luke demanded.

Saunders gave a mocking laugh. “That pathetic loser?” he scoffed. “Topping himself because he couldn't take the pressure is one thing, but to leave a letter telling everything? Who's that stupid?”

Luke waited until the man's laughter died. “He wasn't stupid,” he said quietly. “He just wanted you to think that.”

Without warning, Saunders grabbed Maggie's wrist, twisting and pulling her to the floor. She struggled in his grasp as he tried to wrench the gun from her hand. He punched her hard in the stomach and she froze momentarily, enough for him to snatch the gun from her hand. Before he could capitalise on it, she punched straight up, catching him under the jaw. He cried out in pain, his tongue caught between his teeth as she slammed his jaws together. She grabbed the gun back from him and pushed the barrel hard into his throat.

“Maggie, no.” Luke saw the anger glittering in her eyes, her teeth bared in blood lust. Her finger hesitated over the trigger.

“After what he's done, why shouldn't I?” she snarled.

Luke kept the man firmly in his sights. “Because we need him to tell Willis everything,” he said. “He has to explain.”

Saunders looked up at Luke and gave a breathy laugh. “You've got to be kidding,” he said thickly. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. He had obviously bitten his tongue hard when she smacked his jaws together. His smile was twisted, blood staining his lips. “It's my word against yours,” he continued. “Me, with my perfect record. And you, hiding Magpie in your apartment. Who do you think Willis is going to believe?”

Luke stared at him, his expression calm and calculating. “You're right,” he said flatly.

The Beretta barked once. Saunders stared in wide-eyed shock, dead before he realised it. The bullet from Luke's gun bored a neat hole in between his eyes. He fell backwards.

Maggie looked up at her brother, a questioning frown on her face. “And how are you going to explain that?” she asked carefully.

Luke lowered the gun and stared down at her. He shouldered the gun before reaching to offer her his hand to help her to stand. She regarded him with curiosity before accepting his hand and allowing him to pull her upright.

“He broke into the apartment and tried to kill me,” Luke said carelessly. “Simple as that.”

“And confessed his entire plan first?”

“Works for Bond.” He held out his hand for the PPK. She hesitated, her keen eyes searching his face for any clue as to his emotional state. There was something in the familiar features she found reassuring, although she would be hard pressed to try to explain it. She handed the gun over.

“It's very pragmatic of you,” she said carefully.

“You don't approve?” he asked. He looked calm and unruffled, as though he hadn't just shot a fellow agent in cold blood in his own apartment.

She shook her head. “On the contrary.”

They both whirled around at the sound of running steps, ready for anything. As Bodie and Doyle appeared through the doorway in textbook formation, they both relaxed. Luke lowered his gun again as Bodie and Doyle shouldered theirs.

“We heard a gun shot,” Doyle said, looking around the room before the clear green eyes found the body of Saunders slumped on the floor. “Who's that?”

“Saunders,” Luke replied. “He broke in to kill me, divert attention away from the rest of them.”

“And he found Maggie,” Bodie added.

“I shot him,” Luke said calmly. “Self defence. He was threatening to shoot Maggie.”

Doyle eyed him cautiously. “Where's his gun then?” he asked suspiciously. Luke held out the PPK in reply. His dark blue eyes dared Doyle to find fault.

Bodie gave Doyle a brief look, wondering if his partner would push for more explanations or accept the neat parcel they were being presented. He decided to forestall any further argument. Doyle seemed altogether too keen to provoke Luke at every available opportunity.

“Cowley sent us to bring you both in,” he said. He gave a bright smile. “I think we've cracked it.”

Strangely, Maggie did not look pleased at the news. “Saunders said they're going to get Macklin to hang himself,” she said. “You'd better have bloody cracked it. I won't risk him any longer.”

They saw her flint-eyed determination and knew better than to argue. “No-one will get Macklin to hang himself,” Doyle said reassuringly.

Luke ran a hand through his hair, his movements tense and awkward. “Even if he's been told Willis has got Magpie in custody?”

Doyle glared at him as Bodie stared in open-mouthed horror. “Who would tell him something like that?” Doyle demanded angrily.

Luke chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, and Bodie thought how this was probably the first time he had ever seen Luke Peterson look guilty.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The trip to CI5 headquarters was tense. Playing divide and conquer, Bodie travelled with Luke in his Astra while Doyle followed with Maggie in the RS.

She sat, almost unnaturally still apart from the soft bounce of her right leg, an unconscious signal Doyle knew of old.

“Come on, Maggie,” he coaxed gently. “Relax.”

Her hard stare fixed on the road in front of them, the street lights strobing across her face, accentuating her pursed lips and tightly clenched jaw. “That's easy for you to say,” she snapped.

Doyle exhaled noisily. “Be fair,” he said sharply. “I don't want anything to happen to Macklin either.”

She turned to him slowly. “Not the same,” she said, sibilant and harsh as she tried to restrain her emotions.

Doyle gave a resigned nod. “No, probably not,” he allowed, his voice lower, almost soft. He turned his head to meet her gaze, but she looked away, unwilling to allow his keen green eyes to penetrate her thin veneer of calmness. “This must be hell for you,” he continued quietly. “Not knowing, not able to lift a finger. Caged up. With him,” he added viciously as he referred to Luke.

“Luke's not so bad.” Maggie's voice was strangely gentle.

Doyle gave her a surprised look. “You're kidding, right?” he demanded.

She shrugged stiffly, holding her body too tight to allow her normally fluid movements. “He went after his father's killer. You can't expect me, of all people, to hold that against him.”

Doyle shook his head slowly. “You're a strange one, Maggie Draven,” he said with a rueful smile. “And what does he make of you, I wonder?”

“A poor excuse for a sister, I'm sure,” she replied. The soft note of regret in her reply silenced any comment he had thought of making.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Your partner dislikes me.” Peterson's laconic comment cut through the silence in the Astra.

Bodie shrugged. “I wouldn't take it too personally,” he replied smoothly. “Doyle dislikes most people. Wasn't particularly fond of me when we first met.”

Peterson gave a brief snort of amusement. “Well I suppose I've given him more than enough cause to dislike me,” he allowed calmly.

“Wasn't the smoothest of starts,” he agreed. He glanced across, his navy blue eyes hard. “Can't say I've forgotten either,” he added. “Your introduction was quite memorable.”

Peterson's smile faded, the look on his handsome face turning distant. “So I imagine,” he replied.

“I expect you and Maggie have had a lot of catching up to do,” Bodie said with lazy sarcasm.

Peterson's eyes glittered in the amber street lights. “Not as much as you'd expect,” he replied sardonically.

Bodie gave a heavy sigh, looking through the windscreen to the road ahead. “Doyle won't forgive you for what you did to her,” he said at last with a note of finality. He turned to glance at Peterson again. “Neither will I,” he added.

“I don't recall asking for your forgiveness.”

“What about hers?” Bodie asked quickly, a harsh note entering his voice.

“Didn't ask for that either,” Luke snapped. He glared at Bodie angrily. “We'll thrash all this out later, shall we?” he snarled. “Because, believe it or not, I want to make sure Macklin's safe just as much as any of you. And I think that's probably Maggie's number one concern as well.”

Bodie allowed his anger to subside slowly, acknowledging the truth of Luke's words. He nodded briefly. “Okay,” he agreed. “But don't think you can play happy families just yet.”

Luke gave a harsh laugh. “I wasn't planning to,” he replied.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Cowley eyed the four of them as they entered his office, his gaze lingering on Peterson the longest. The tall MI6 man met the keen grey gaze calmly, without awkwardness.

“It's all here,” he said as soon as the door to his office closed behind Doyle. “The evidence, the forensics. The works.” He removed his glasses, laying them on top of the buff folder on top of his desk, all the papers and photographs that had strewn his desk for the last few days now tidily bundled within.

Luke eyed the controller shrewdly. “Is it enough?” he asked sternly.

Cowley sat back in his chair, returning the earnest look firmly. “Aye,” he said. “It is.” He reached for the folder on his desk, running his fingers across the top edges and down the sides as though reassuring himself of its reality. “It's all here – Reynolds made a complaint against his team. When Willis refused to take it further, Reynolds decided he couldn't operate in that unit any longer. But it was too late by then. He'd already proven that he couldn't be trusted. Morris only needs one more whisper of a complaint against him and he's out of the Service, with Jenkins not far behind him. That last suspect dying in custody – Harris – would have finished them both. Especially as they used him to cover up their own embezzlement of Service funds.” Cowley rested both hands protectively on top of the folder, aware of the value of the contents. “They hatched a plan to murder Reynolds. Jenkins passed him the flask in a pretence of camaraderie.” Cowley's lips pursed in distaste at the treachery. “He knew Reynolds would wait until he was back in his room, with the door locked. He just had to wait an hour to make sure he'd had time to drink it, and then engineer an excuse to find the body and recover the flask.”

“So that's why they didn't just leave him to be found in the morning,” Doyle added quietly.

“Break into the room on the pretence of hearing a fight, then stab him so no-one looks for another cause of death,” Bodie said as the whole picture began to form around them.

Cowley nodded primly. “Aye. Dirty business,” he muttered. “Morris got Hughes, in all innocence, to act as his witness, and while Hughes was distracted with the door, he stabbed Reynolds' already dead body with the stiletto.”

“But he forgot the flask,” Luke said.

“The flask,” Cowley agreed. “He forgot it, thank God, else I don't know how Hughes would have noticed. Poor lad,” Cowley looked down at his desk, pausing in regret at the thought of the dead agent. “Hughes knew it was only a matter of time before he had a similar 'accident'. He knew his suicide was the only way to make sure the truth came out, so he sacrificed himself for the memory of his colleague.” He looked up resolutely. “We have the coroner's toxicology report on Reynolds; we have Hughes' deathbed testimony, and we have forensic evidence on the hip flask recovered from Short's apartment.”

“Then when do we get Macklin?” Doyle asked, knowing it was the one question Maggie wanted answered.

Cowley looked thoughtful, almost regretful. “There's one thing more we need,” he said.

“What?” Maggie's voice broke in a sharp breath.

“For a rock solid case, we need Jenkins to damn himself,” Cowley said regretfully. “We can implicate them, but we only have Short for certain with the evidence of the flask. We need something against Jenkins and Morris directly.” He looked at Maggie with eyes almost feverish in intensity. “Would you play tethered goat, Maggie?” he asked gently. “Would you go into MI6 and let them think they had you cornered?”

Her violet eyes flashed with determination. “Yes,” she replied, without hesitation.

“It means trusting Luke. Trusting me,” Cowley insisted. “You can't deviate for an instant. No making your own plots, girl.”

“I understand,” she replied simply. “What do you want me to do?”

“Now wait a minute,” Luke interrupted sharply. “What are you expecting me to do?” he demanded.

Cowley's sharp gaze turned to the MI6 man. “Exactly what Willis would expect,” he replied silkily. “Take Magpie into custody. Then we wait for Jenkins and Morris to make their move.”

“What about us?” Doyle said quickly. “We can't leave her in MI6 without back-up, and we can't trust him.”

Peterson rounded on Doyle sharply. “Yeah, cus back-up worked so well for her in the past, didn't it?” he snarled angrily.

“Now you wait a minute -” Doyle roared.

Maggie pushed between the two men before Cowley could shout for them to behave. “Then do it right this time,” she snapped loudly. “Because if it has any chance of getting Macklin out in one piece and his integrity intact, then I'm going there.”

“Enough!” Cowley bellowed. Silence fell in the wake of his outcry. He glared at Luke and Doyle with equal ferocity. “There's no room for mistakes, and we need to be absolutely sure of every step. Be certain,” he said, his voice dropping to a threatening growl. “If anything goes wrong here, anything at all, I will make it my personal responsibility to ensure everyone involved is called to take account of themselves. Do you understand?”

Luke glowered at him. “Does that include you?” he demanded.

Cowley met the challenging gaze with a furious look. “First and foremost, laddie,” he snarled. “First and foremost.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin lay back on the stiff cot bed, his hands lying on his chest as he stared at the ceiling. He ignored the cell door as it opened to allow Morris to enter. The dark haired man closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, regarding the motionless figure of Macklin.

“You disappoint me, Macklin.”

“Go to hell,” Macklin replied, his voice lacking heat despite his angry words.

Morris shook his head, tutting slowly. “Obviously we over-estimated Draven's importance to you,” he said mockingly. “It's all academic, you know,” he continued as he opened to door to leave again. “Alive or dead, you'll take the rap for Reynolds' murder.” He paused to look back at Macklin. “And tonight won't be the last time you'll think about suicide.”

Macklin stared at the ceiling. Morris' words, cruel though they had been, had washed over him in vain. The black shirt Jenkins had left him hung on the back of one of the metal chairs. The reassuring scent of Maggie on the shirt was tainted by the blood, and Macklin did not need the shirt to remember her. Her face was burned into his memory, her touch, the sound of her voice – even the rhythm of her breathing.

If this all turned out to be the hoax he suspected it to be, then it meant Jenkins and Morris were being panicked into action. They had tried to make him kill himself to save her life, and when that failed, they had made him think they had killed her. Either he died to save her, or he died of grief. But Maggie could never be captured so easily, and Macklin was not the kind to die of a broken heart.

Without her, Macklin functioned, like a machine functioned. He served his purpose, performed his tasks faultlessly. Without question, without thought, without any spark of humanity. The same way that she endured without him. They could exist apart, but they could not live.

If it turned out to be true – if the blood on the shirt truly belonged to Maggie – then nothing they could do to him would hurt him again.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke led Maggie by the arm through the doors of Century House, her hands cuffed in front of her. The agent on duty at the desk gave him a surprised look as he signed her in.

“You want me to get Father in?” he asked as Luke handed back the pen.

“No, not yet,” Luke replied smoothly. “Let me get her settled first before we start disturbing him. Is anyone back from Short's place yet?”

The agent shook his head. “Not yet. What happened?”

Luke gave a sigh and a wry look. “Complicated,” he replied. He took hold of Maggie's arm again and moved away. “I've left my key fob at home,” he added in a relaxed, easy-going tone. “Buzz us through, would you, mate?”

The agent nodded obligingly and Luke gave a smile of thanks as the door unlocked to let them through.

“That's him on a charge,” Maggie muttered as Luke led her through the corridors.

“Don't knock it,” he replied under his breath, his lips barely moving. “Obviously it's my trustworthy face.”

Maggie gave a snort of laughter.

“Are you sure about this?” Luke asked, his voice still barely a whisper. “Once we start this, we can't stop it. Not until it's finished.”

“I know,” she replied curtly.

He glanced down at her, and she was surprised by the look of concern in his dark blue eyes. “They could just walk into your cell and shoot you without giving anything away,” he insisted.

She licked her lips, considering the truth of his words. “They'll just have to have a reason to keep me talking, won't they?”

Luke sighed. “I don't like it,” he growled.

“Since when did you get so concerned about me?” she replied sharply.

His grip tightened on her arm as he shook her slightly. “Since I found out you're my bloody sister,” he snarled. “Credit me with some morality, will you?”

“About the same as mine,” she said, a self-mocking smile on her face.

He gave a wry look and shook his head. “What a pair we are.”

A red-haired woman appeared from one of the offices, greeting them with a look of surprise. The same woman that had been watching Macklin earlier. “Blimey, you got her!”

Luke smiled. “Hi, Cathy,” he greeted her warmly. “Father gone?”

“About three hours ago,” she replied.

“I thought you and Kay were set to watch over Macklin til 2am?” Luke said, stopping with a frown. “What happened?”

She pulled a face. “Bloody Jenkins pulled rank,” she said with a sneer. “Sexist bastard.”

Luke felt Maggie's muscles tense under his hand. “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

Cathy blinked, too well-trained not to pick up on Luke's suddenly serious manner. “He told us to get out in no uncertain terms,” she explained. Her eyes narrowed. “What's going on, Luke?”

Luke fixed her with a hard stare, trying to ascertain whether he could trust the red-haired woman. She may be no friend of Jenkins, but that didn't necessarily make her Luke's ally either.

“I'll let you know,” he replied cagily.

She nodded, allowing him his secrets. “Okay,” she said. “Anything we can do, we're in the rest room til our shift finishes at 4am.”

Luke gave a small, genuine smile. Cathy responded to the sudden warmth in his expression with a reassuring smile of her own, before walking down the corridor towards the rest room. Luke's gaze followed her before he turned back to Maggie, continuing on their way to the interrogation rooms.

“When you've quite finished flirting,” Maggie muttered.

Luke shot her a warning look. “I'm going to need witnesses,” he said. “Cathy Mitchell and Kay Darrow are as good as anyone for that.”

“She's good with a knife,” Maggie added obscurely. “I remember her from the last group that came through. Darrow's a sniper though.”

Luke stopped outside one of the room, opening the door and gesturing for her to go through. “We're here.”

She hesitated on the threshold. “Mitchell left Macklin with Jenkins,” she said quietly. Luke saw the concern in her dark blue eyes. “Please – just check on him,” she asked softly, not bothering to disguise the plea in her voice.

He nodded. “I will,” he promised. “Now – get in and stick to the script. I'll be back in a minute.”

She entered the room, waiting until the fluorescent light flickered and stayed on before glancing around the room. The door closed behind her, and she was alone.

She glanced at the large mirror occupying one side of the room, and hoped she could act well enough. Their lives may depend on it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke prowled the offices and corridors, looking for the right people to cast his bait for. He collected a tape recorder from one room, together with a fresh notepad and two cassettes still in their cellophane wrappers.

He hesitated near the door to the rest room, before making a decision and entering. Inside, he was relieved to find just Darrow and Mitchell. Mitchell stood by the kettle, stirring two mugs, while Darrow lay across the leather sofa, an open book in her hands. The two women looked up expectantly as he entered.

“What are your thoughts of Jenkins and Morris?” he asked abruptly.

Darrow raised an eyebrow and blinked, while Mitchell gave a laugh. “Are you asking on the record or off it?” Darrow asked cautiously.

Luke gave a broad smile, his dark blue eyes glinting. “Oh very much off it, I'd say,” he replied.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Jenkins gave a guilty start as the door to the observation room opened. He glared at Darrow as she entered. The look she gave him, casting her gaze up and down him in obvious contempt, did not improve his mood.

“I thought I told you to fuck off,” he snarled angrily.

Darrow ignored his blatant hostility and stood staring through the mirror into the room opposite. Macklin lay stretched out on the bed, giving no indication of the thoughts flying through his mind.

“Peterson's just brought Maggie Draven in,” she said, her tone implying boredom with the whole process.

She pretended to ignore Jenkins' sudden agitation. “What did you say?” He stood up, pulling his jacket from the back of the chair as he did so.

She turned to give him a look of complete unconcern. “Draven. The Magpie,” she said calmly. “Peterson is just questioning her now.”

“What about?” he demanded.

Darrow shrugged. “From the bit I heard, it seems she's found out who murdered Reynolds.” She turned to fix Jenkins with her clear blue-green eyes. “Turns out it wasn't Macklin after all, according to her.”

“She would say that,” Jenkins blustered.

Darrow turned back to watch Macklin, intrigued by the disquiet in the other agent. His manner, combined with Peterson's strange behaviour, aroused her curiosity, and her imagination was providing possible meanings, all of which seemed to promise a far more interesting night shift than drinking coffee in the staff room and reading pulp fiction.

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Except there was some mention of evidence,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Something about tapes.”

Jenkins went pale, and Darrow hid her smile. He put his jacket on as he walked to the door.

“Want me to carry on the watch?” she asked smoothly.

Jenkins grunted his response, leaving the room without a word. Darrow stared after him thoughtfully. Barely a minute after he had left, the door opened quietly to admit Mitchell.

“He went off like a bat out of hell,” she reported. She eyed Darrow suspiciously. “What do you think is going on, Kay?” she asked.

Darrow shrugged. “Buggered if I know, mate,” she replied candidly. “But something tells me we're in for a fun evening.” She grinned at her friend. “Ready for phase two?”

Mitchell smiled broadly. “Oh definitely,” she said with a gleeful look.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Morris entered the observation room cautiously, visibly relieved to find only Jenkins occupying the room. Jenkins stood watching the room opposite, his arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair was dark in the shadowy room, only lit by the light coming through the two-way mirror from the room beyond. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

Morris stepped silently into the room, standing beside Jenkins to watch. In the room beyond, Luke Peterson sat opposite Maggie Draven. He sat, leaning on the table, listening intently as he toyed with the pen in his hand, making notes, while the tape recorder between them whirled.

“What's going on?” Morris whispered.

“It's all going fucking wrong,” Jenkins muttered, his voice hoarse as he chewed incessantly on the inside of his mouth.

“What?”

“Just fucking listen, will you?” Jenkins snapped, whirling around to glare angrily at Morris. He sighed, running his hand through his hair distractedly. “She's got bloody tapes,” he snarled.

Morris paled, his mouth hanging open in horror. “You've got to be kidding?” he breathed.

“Of course I'm not bloody kidding!” Jenkins exploded, his anger and frustration too much to contain any longer. The whole plan was coming apart in front of him.

Morris turned his attention to the interrogation going on in the other room, listening with mounting apprehension.

“And you have these tapes in your possession?” Peterson asked, his tone clipped and professional.

Maggie sat back in her chair, her handcuffed hands on her lap in front of her, her legs stretched out lazily. She looked up at Luke through long black lashes. “Yes,” she replied testily. “They're hidden until I can make copies.”

“Audio and visual?”

“Audio and visual,” she repeated wearily. “I told you, we cover the training facility with hidden cameras. And we bug all areas as routine. It keeps us aware of what you're planning, so we know what you're expecting.”

“And you got – what exactly?” Luke looked up from his writing to frown at her uncertainly.

She sighed, leaning her head back in the chair and staring up at the ceiling. “Jenkins gave Reynolds a silver hip flask,” she said in a sing-song voice, as though tired of repeating herself. “You can see it on the CCTV. Later on, Reynolds can be seen drinking from the same flask in his room. He convulses – dies in seconds. Looks like cyanide to me.” She shrugged, offering her opinion with detached professionalism. “About 45 minutes after, you see Hughes and Morris enter the room. Morris stabs Reynolds and hides the weapon before Hughes notices.”

“And these are clear images?” Luke insisted.

She leaned forward in her seat to look him straight in the eyes. “Clear as you sitting in front of me now,” she replied firmly. “That good enough for you? All you have to do is get a half-way competent pathologist to run a toxicology report to ascertain the poison they used. They should see from the blood loss that the stab wound was clearly administered after the heart had stopped beating.”

“What about the flask?”

She smiled and leaned back in the chair. “Ah, well,” she said slowly. “That's where it gets even more interesting. Because before Short dived off the top of his building tonight, I broke into his place and found the actual hip flask.”

“You could have planted it there,” Luke replied.

She nodded, allowing the accusation to pass without anger. “Except you'll match it to the poison in Reynolds' system, and match it to the pictures of the flask he had when he died. That, along with the recording of the argument between them when they found out that Morris had been stupid enough to forget to pick up the flask when he stabbed the dead body, and I think you've got enough for the most incompetent of Prosecutors.”

Luke gave her an appraising look, tapping his pen rapidly on the notepad in front of him. “And what do you expect me to do with this?” he asked.

“I expect you to release Macklin and Towser,” she replied immediately. “And me,” she added with a smile. “What you do to your rotten apples is your own business, but if they cross my path, then rest assured, I'll make them pay for what they did to us.” Her teeth glinted as she gave a predatory smile.

Luke closed his note pad carefully before reaching forward to turn off the recorder. “Thank you for that, Maggie,” he said politely. “You'll understand if I wait until my controller arrives to give further instructions.”

She pursed her lips in mild annoyance. “If you must,” she allowed, resentment in her voice. “But I'm not releasing those tapes until we're out of here.”

“I understand,” he agreed. He glanced at his watch as a knock sounded at the door.

Mitchell appeared around the door. “Peterson. There's a call for you,” she said.

He nodded. “Okay, thanks.” He stood up, running his hand down his shirt front to straighten his tie. “I'll have to contact the controller now. I'll leave you here til he arrives.”

“And how long with that take?” she asked, anger tingeing her voice with irritation.

He gave a small smile that was nothing more than a lifting of the corners of his mouth. “These things aren't quick,” he said in a mollifying tone. “It'll be a couple of hours at least, I'd say.”

She sighed. “And what about these?” She held out her hands, jangling the cuffs to illustrate her point.

“As a precaution,” he said soothingly. “Come on, if what you say is true, then there's nothing to worry about, is there?” he asked calmly. He gave a reassuring smile as he turned to leave. “If everything works out, you'll all be out of here tonight.”

“And Jenkins? Morris?” she demanded as he opened the door.

He held her gaze steadily. “Leave them to Willis,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Morris turned to Jenkins in the observation room. “We are so screwed,” he said, his eyes wide with fear.

Jenkins grabbed him violently, his fingers digging into the muscles of Morris' upper arms. “No, we're not,” he snarled, saliva flecking his lips. Desperation glittered in his eyes. “Not yet, we're not.” He released Morris roughly, pushing the man away as he turned his burning gaze back to the woman who sat in the room opposite. “She hasn't brought the evidence here,” he said thoughtfully. “She hasn't copied it.”

“She's told Peterson about it,” Morris insisted.

Jenkins' eyes narrowed. “Yes, but it's still nothing but a wild story,” he said. “Without those tapes, there's nothing but her word against ours. And who is Father going to believe?”

Morris shook his head. “Even so, with her and Macklin sticking to their version, even Father is going to have to start questioning his preferred version of events.”

Jenkins chewed his lip thoughtfully. “We didn't have much luck persuading Macklin to kill himself,” he said softly. “But Maggie Draven shot whilst trying to escape will give us just as neat an ending.”

Morris gave a harsh snort of laughter. “Just make sure you let Macklin see the dead body this time.”

Jenkins smiled slowly. “Oh I will,” he breathed. “I will.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Bodie and Doyle loitered in the shadows outside Century House. Judicious use of a small mirror enabled Bodie to keep an eye on the agent manning the security desk without making his presence known.

Doyle looked at his watch. “What's he playing at?” he whispered harshly.

“No idea, mate,” Bodie replied, his calm tones distant and relaxed as he watched the MI6 agent idly flick through the newspaper on his desk. “Their's not to reason why.”

Doyle edged closer to the wall, risking a look at the guard. “If he's double-crossed us,” he muttered angrily.

Bodie sighed heavily. “Look, you can't keep doubting Peterson,” he snapped. “Whatever else he's done, he's risked a lot to help Maggie.”

“I don't trust him,” Doyle muttered sulkily.

“You've made that perfectly clear,” Bodie replied lazily. “On numerous occasions.”

“Well, what do you expect?”

“Hang on.” Bodie ignored Doyle's sullen complaints, distracted by movement within Century House.

“What's going on?” Doyle asked, sneaking to the edge of the wall again.

They peered around the side of the door-frame, watching as a black-haired woman spoke to the man on the desk. She gave him a bright, friendly smile, nodding vigorously. She flicked her hair to one side, maintaining eye contact with the guard, her smile never wavering.

“She's friendly,” Bodie said archly.

“Too good for him,” Doyle added, eyeing the way her slender legs led to the enticing flare of her hips as she leaned over the desk.

They watched as the guard left his desk, walking around the woman who turned to face him. She leaned back on the desk, the arch of her spine thrusting her chest forward slightly as her elbows rested on the desk behind her. Bodie and Doyle matched the appreciative look of the agent as he looked her up and down before turning to leave. He stopped at the door to give her a smile and a final comment, which she greeted with a laugh. Finally, the man left.

“What's all that about?” Doyle asked suspiciously as the woman's expression changed immediately. She looked around her quickly, before walking to the doors. Bodie and Doyle dived for the shadows.

The door opened. “Psst!”. The woman's whisper penetrated the darkness but they did not respond. She gave a loud sigh. “Look, I know there's two CI5 men out here. Bodie and Doyle.” Her sibilant whisper carried through the shadows, sounding frustrated and terse. “Now get in here quick before he comes back.”

Bodie moved out of the shadows reluctantly. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in a whisper.

She gave him a quick glance. “Peterson told me to let you in,” she replied. “Now - are you coming or not, cus I'm not waiting all night.”

She started as Doyle stepped out of the darkness. “Yeah, but who are you?” he insisted.

She sighed, looking back into the building quickly to check whether anything had changed. “My name is Kay Darrow,” she replied quickly. “I'm MI6. Peterson told me to let you two in. You have to protect Draven before Jenkins and Morris get to her.” She glared at the two men. “Is that enough for you? I know you CI5 blokes are bloody paranoid, but this is going too far.”

Bodie slid through the open door, pausing to give her a suave smile and appreciative look. “It's only paranoia if it's not true.”

Doyle pushed his shoulder to move him out of the way. Bodie walked inside, his senses alight to any suspicious movements or sounds. Doyle paused in the doorway opposite her, a glint in his green eyes as he subjected her to the same consideration as his partner. “Thanks,” he said with a soft smile.

She stared up into his eyes, turning the same assessing look on him. “Hurry up,” she hissed, but a slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She locked the doors behind them, and nodded to the way through to the main offices. “Luke said you know the way,” she said. “Collins will be back in a minute, so don't hang about.”

“Thanks,” Doyle said giving her a genuine smile. “You won't get into trouble for this?”

She gave a brief laugh. “If I do, I'll say you forced me at gun point,” she said lightly. “Here.” She reached for the door, passing her key fob over the scanner panel. The lock clicked loudly.

“Luke left us his,” Bodie said, holding up the key fob Peterson had given them.

“Yes,” she said. “But this way, they won't know how you got in, will they?” She pushed the door lightly, opening it for them. “Get on. You haven't got much time.”

The two CI5 men slid through the door. Doyle hesitated in the open doorway. “Are you free tomorrow night?” he asked.

She shook her head but she was smiling. “Depends if I've still got a job after all this is over.”

The door closed behind them, and Darrow had just enough time to take her place at the desk before Collins reappeared.

“Nothing there,” he said with a confused frown.

She feigned surprise. She had told him there was a telephone call from him, patched through from the switchboard. “I'm sure they'll call back if it's important,” she said smoothly. She stepped out from the desk to let him resume his position.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not a thing,” she lied easily. “I'll see you later.” She could feel him watching her as she left, so she accentuated the sway of her hips. She felt he deserved the small reward.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Maggie looked up as the door opened, and tried to hide her rising fear as Jenkins and Morris entered the room. She eyed them warily, not moving from her seat as the two men entered. The door clicked locked behind them.

“You've been telling stories,” Morris said, a soft threat in his sing-song voice.

She licked her lips. “No idea what you're talking about,” she said quickly, stalling for time. She avoided glancing to the mirror on one side of the room, knowing she would get no indication from that quarter whether the encounter was being witnessed. She was working blind.

“Oh come on, Draven.” Jenkins sounded tense, a note of apprehension behind the irritation. “What's this about tapes?”

They weren't giving her much time. She didn't know whether the other players were in place yet, had no idea whether the gamble was going to work. And the two men in front of her were rushing ahead of the script.

“Don't mess about, Jenkins,” she mocked gently. “Only Bond villains give all their secrets away as soon as they're cornered.”

Morris leaned on the table between them, fixing her with a determined stare. “The only ones who will get done for Reynolds' murder are you and Macklin,” he said quietly.

She gave a bark of laughter. “And how do you expect to work that?” she demanded. “No evidence.”

“On the contrary,” Jenkins replied. “Plenty of evidence. Didn't we find the murder weapon at your home?”

She shook her head. “Oh no,” she said sharply. She licked her lips again, allowing some of her nervousness to show, to let them think they had the upper-hand.

Who was she trying to kid – right now, they did have the upper-hand. She was putting her faith in a half-brother who'd already tried to kill her once, and an organisation that had as many turf wars with MI6 than the KGB.

“Reynolds was poisoned,” she said firmly.

Jenkins gave a predatory smile. “And where's your proof for that?” he demanded. “The coroner says he was stabbed.”

“The coroner's an idiot,” she snarled. “And so's Willis if he believes you.”

“The fact is,” Jenkins said, stepping around the table to stand over her threateningly. “The truth is whatever Willis wants it to be.”

“And with his prime suspect committing suicide, he's got all the evidence he needs,” Morris added.

She watched the two man warily as they moved to stand either side of her. “Macklin would never kill himself,” she said, her belief firm and adamant. “I'd never forgive him.”

“Oh, it's surprising what you can make him believe with a bag of blood and a shirt,” Morris said smoothly. “A spot of acting from a handy volunteer, and the scene is set.”

She felt cold doubt in her veins. “No way,” she said, but her voice sounded less resolute.

“What do you know about Reynolds' murder?” Morris insisted.

She looked from one man to the other. “You killed him,” she said quietly.

Jenkins nodded slowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “But can you prove it?”

“Yes,” she replied. He stared down at her, looking hard into the dark blue eyes to find any sign of uncertainty. “You poisoned him.”

“But you haven't brought the proof here,” Morris said. “And no-one knows where it is.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

Morris gave a cold smile, his dark eyes glittering with malicious amusement. “Meaning,” he said silkily. “That no-one knows to look for it. It's your word against ours. And no-one will believe you.”

“They will when I give them the tapes,” she insisted.

Jenkins reached out suddenly and grabbed a handful of her hair. She gave a gasp of pain as he pulled her to her feet, her head twisting as she tried to stop him tearing her hair out from the roots.

“You won't give them the tapes,” he snarled. “Because you'll be in a body bag.”

He dragged her to the door by her hair, drawing his Colt Python as he moved. “You're going to try to escape,” he said, ignoring the sounds of pain as she stumbled after him. “And we're going to be forced to shoot you.” He slammed her against the wall, thrusting the barrel of the gun under her chin. She tried to move away from the cold metal, rising up on her toes and stretching her head high, but the barrel twisted and pushed into her skin, bruising the soft flesh.

Morris opened the door, drawing his Browning and sighting carefully down the barrel straight between her eyes. “You'd better get running,” he said almost gently.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Macklin did not move as the door to his cell opened, only expecting more taunts from Morris or Jenkins.

“You're still alive then.”

He looked up, startled to hear Luke's voice. Peterson stood, regarding him with a slight smile.

“Where's Maggie?” Macklin demanded harshly. He had spent too many hours not knowing the truth, trying to convince himself that it had all been a charade. Now he needed to know for certain.

“She's on the ground floor,” Luke replied.

“Alive?”

A slight frown crossed Luke's face. “Of course she's alive,” he said, momentarily perplexed by the strange question. Understanding dawned. “Did they tell you she was dead?” he asked.

“They said they'd shot her,” Macklin said briefly. A world of pain lay hidden behind his curt voice. “Gave me a blood stained shirt.”

Luke glanced at the black shirt hanging across the back of the chair, and shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “She's alive.”

Luke watched in amazement at the sudden change in Macklin's expression. He changed from a solid, frozen mask, devoid of emotions, to something warmer, even younger looking. Subtle lines and creases disappeared from the handsome face.

Macklin stood quickly. “Now what?”

Luke smiled. “Now, we sew them up good and proper,” he said with satisfaction. “Come on.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the observation room next to the room holding Maggie, Mitchell carefully checked the tape, watching it whirl round steadily while keeping one eye on the drama unfolding inside. Bodie and Doyle stood beside her.

“You won't have long,” she said, her voice tight with tension.

“It's got to be water-tight,” Doyle said. He was far from happy. Watching as Maggie was threatened and bullied made him itch to intervene, but if they did so too soon, it would all be in vain.

“It won't come to them shooting her,” Bodie insisted. “They won't get the chance.”

“Are you going to risk it?” Doyle demanded, turning on his partner angrily. His green eyes glittered, his teeth bared as his lips thinned in his frustration.

“You haven't got much choice.” Mitchell's calm voice cut through the exchange. “It's got to play out, else you've got nothing.”

They watched as Jenkins pushed Maggie roughly against the wall, drawing his gun and forcing the barrel under her chin. Doyle twitched, restless and nervous, eager to call a halt to the situation as soon as possible. Bodie watched, equally tense, but controlling his disquiet behind coiled muscles, hard as steel.

Suddenly, Maggie pushed against Jenkins with her handcuffed hands and dived through the open door.

“Shit!” All Doyle's tension exploded in one word as he dived for the door, drawing his SIG as he went. Bodie reacted instantly, moving with almost unnatural speed to follow his partner through the door. Mitchell followed them, desperate to see what happened next.

Maggie ran down the corridor away from them, and from Jenkins and Morris who stepped out of the room after her. Her head ducked low as she sprinted.

“Halt!” Jenkins did not bother waiting to see whether she would stop. He fired three times in rapid succession at the same time as he shouted. Each bullet hit its mark, slamming into Maggie's back accurately.

She faltered, her head thrown back as the force of the impact propelled her forward into the wall at the end of the corridor. She hit with a sickening thud, her arms outstretched as though she had tried at the last minute to lessen the blow. She slid down the wall without a sound, twisting onto her back as she landed.

“No!”

Doyle had grabbed Jenkins, pushing him face first into the wall roughly even as Macklin's yell echoed down the corridor. He twisted Jenkins' arms painfully up the man's back, forcing him to drop the Colt. Beside him, Bodie dealt a vicious punch to Morris' kidney area, dropping the man to the floor immediately, where he kicked away his gun before reaching down to slip handcuffs on the man as he lay gasping for air. Doyle grabbed a handful of Jenkins' hair, using it to smash his face into the wall hard.

“You're fucking nicked,” he snarled angrily. They bundled both men into the interrogation room they had just vacated, pulling the door locked after them.

He met Bodie's glance, both men unwilling to look back down the corridor to where Maggie lay sprawled on her back. Macklin had landed on his knees beside her, a big man to be landing so heavily, but not noticing the impact in his anguish.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Macklin had heard the gun shots just as Maggie came into view. He had seen the way the force of the bullets propelled her into the wall, slamming into her slight frame viciously. He had been sprinting towards her even as she hit the wall, before sliding down to a heap on the floor. He landed on his knees, sliding the remaining few feet to her on the slippery floor of the corridor.

She lay like a broken doll on the floor, her arms and legs splayed messily around her. He choked on his breath as he reached out to stroke the hair from her face, seeing her eyes closed almost peacefully. She sagged limply as he picked her up, cradling her in his arms. He stared down at her helplessly, wanting to shake her, to scream and rail until she opened her eyes.

Instead, he stroked her face, rocking her gently. “Maggie,” he whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes fluttered hesitantly and he felt his heart start beating again. She gave a cough. No blood flecked her lips, and as Macklin became more and more aware of the details, he noticed no blood stains on her chest or on his hands from her back.

Luke appeared beside him, crouching down to lean across and rip the shirt from her roughly. Macklin gave a gasp as the bullet proof vest was revealed beneath the cotton.

“Thank fuck for that,” Luke breathed earnestly. “If he'd gone for a head shot.” He left the sentence hanging, unwilling to finish it.

Maggie gave a tired smile. “Jenkins? Nah,” she said breathlessly. “Crap at a head shot, he is.”

Her violet eyes fixed on Macklin, shining in a way that Luke had never seen before. “There you are,” she said, a self-satisfied note creeping into her voice.

“If you ever do that to me again,” Macklin began hoarsely. He crushed her against him in a bruising embrace, unable to speak.

“Ouch,” she said, causing him to release her immediately, frowning solicitously. “Those three slugs felt like bloody sledgehammers landing on my back,” she explained with a grimace.

He smiled in relief, but held her more gently.

“It worked then.” Bodie's casual comment caused Luke to look up, finding the two CI5 men staring down with relief in their faces.

He stood up, smiling at them in genuine relief. “So far,” he agreed. “We just need Willis and Cowley.”

“You'd better have a damn good explanation for all this.” Willis' snarl from behind them brought a wry smile to Peterson's face.

He turned smoothly, ready to answer Willis, but the sight of the man standing behind his controller silenced him.

“Well?” Willis demanded, oblivious to the man standing at his shoulder.

“I think you and I need a chat, Willis.” Cowley's voice interrupted Willis' next snarling question.

Willis whirled around, wide-eyed in shock. Cowley regarded him calmly, Murphy standing at lazy attention beside him. “Your office, Willis,” Cowley said quietly. “Now.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

MI6 and CI5 lined the corridor outside Willis' office, looking for all the world like unruly school children waiting to be called in to the headmaster.

Darrow and Mitchell exchanged glances. “Shall we get Towser?” Mitchell asked hesitantly, looking from one agent to the other. Peterson gave a non-committal shrug, and with a quick nod and twitch of the head, the two female MI6 agents walked off in the direction of the lifts to fetch Towser from his cell, leaving the four men standing alone.

Macklin and Maggie stood to one side. Macklin's angry mood seemed a tangible presence, infecting all of them with the need to not provoke the man any further. They knew instinctively that the only one qualified to cope with a furious Macklin was Maggie, so they left them together. Brusquely and efficiently, he helped Maggie out of the protective Kevlar vest. He probed the indentations in the rough layers of material, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

“You'll have bruises to show for these,” he said, his voice clipped and business-like.

For once, not even the agents watching were fooled by his apparently dismissive attitude. Macklin stood too close to her, not letting her out of his sight for a second, and his touch hesitated too long on her at every opportunity.

“I usually do,” she replied.

He held her shirt for her as she threaded her arms through the sleeves. He rested his hands on her shoulders as soon as she had finished. Without warning, he pulled her against him, his arms encircling her waist in a strangely possessive manner. She felt the reassuringly solid warmth of him against her back.

“You do that again, and I'll kill you,” he muttered harshly.

She closed her eyes, unable to hide her smile. “It was just a precaution.” With Macklin beside her again, Maggie felt complete, relaxed, and unable to disguise her relief.

He tried to quell the thought of what could have happened if she hadn't worn the vest, but his arms instinctively tightened around her, as though pulling her out of the clutches of Death itself.

“I thought we were supposed to be out of the firing line,” he whispered in her ear.

“We are,” she replied quietly, for his ears alone. She turned to face him, his hands resting on her waist as he stared down at her. “They dragged us into it.”

She saw the anger flare in his eyes, his expression taut and hard, and wished they were alone. They needed time to thrash out whatever was eating away at him. For her part, the world was right again. She needed no more reassurance than to be close to him again, to see the heat in his eyes as he looked at her.

“Not long now, Mack,” she said softly.

The tendons in his jaw moved rhythmically as he clenched and unclenched, grinding his teeth with the effort of controlling his temper. He turned her around, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his anger, and pulled her back against him, leaning down to press his face against her hair. He couldn't say what he wanted, not here. Couldn't give rein to his frustration and relief. But he could hold her; he could let her calm him and help him get through this without breaking Willis' neck.

Bodie, Doyle, Murphy and Luke exchanged glances, trying not to look like naughty school boys.

“What do you reckon is going on behind there?” Doyle asked his partner with a sheepish look.

Bodie shrugged. “Shenanigans,” he ventured vaguely. “Machinations. Plots. Counter-plots.”

“Swallowed a bloody thesaurus, Bodie?” Murphy teased.

“Just an everyday occurrence in the Service,” Luke said sullenly.

“Reckon he'll have your guts for garters?” Doyle asked, managing to sound almost sympathetic.

Luke shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “He doesn't take kindly to people who don't toe the party line,” he added, a sneer indicating what he thought of such an attitude.

“Sounds like you're in the wrong job,” Bodie said with a smile.

Luke shook his head. “I like my job,” he admitted without embarrassment. “I'm bloody good at my job, if I'm allowed to get on with it,” he added. “But I'm not arse kissing Willis to keep it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Behind closed doors, Willis assumed his position of authority behind his desk, but Cowley's attitude left no illusion that it was only a pretence of authority he allowed the MI6 controller.

“You tried to set up Macklin, Willis,” Cowley said silkily.

Willis laced his fingers together in front of him, leaning back in his chair as he blinked rapidly, trying to maintain his poise. “I assure you, George, I did no such thing,” he blustered.

Cowley produced an audio tape from his pocket, and indicated the machine on the edge of Willis' desk. “May I?”

Willis frowned in concern but could find no reason to refuse the request. “Be my guest,” he allowed graciously.

He watched, becoming more and more agitated as Cowley carefully and precisely inserted the cassette into the tape machine, peering down his nose as he examined the buttons with excessive care. Finally, he pressed 'play'.

The tape had been cued perfectly. Willis heard his own voice, sounding tinny and high through the small player.

 _“Whatever means necessary, Peterson. I will have Macklin guilty of this. Nothing else is acceptable.”_

“Well, that's out of context,” Willis stammered hesitantly. He faltered as the tape continued.

Luke's baritone voice sounded quite different through the small speaker, lacking the depth and timbre of his natural voice.

 _“I thought we were investigating the murder of Reynolds. I didn't think we were simply investigating Macklin so we could pin it on him.”_

 _“That is the whole purpose, Peterson. I hadn't thought I needed to spell it out to you.”_

Cowley stopped the tape abruptly. “I think that's enough, don't you?”

Willis stared at the machine in horror. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

Cowley's wide eyed look was almost innocent. “Oh there's more,” he said calmly. “We bugged your office, yours and Peterson's. Fortunately for Macklin and Towser,” he added in a low voice.

“And what does that prove?” Willis managed to keep the panic from his voice, but the wily old war -horse in front of him could smell his fear.

Cowley smiled coldly. “That you were prepared to go to whatever lengths necessary to frame innocent people,” he replied smoothly. “So tell me,” he asked, a sharp note entering the silken tones. “Was it your idea for Jenkins and Morris to conspire in the murder of Reynolds?”

Willis blinked in shock, his sharp features paling as Cowley's meaning sank in. “Jenkins and Morris?” he repeated.

Cowley's seemingly calm features exploded with fury, the grey eyes sparkling with anger. “Aye,” he roared, his Scottish brogue broadening and banishing the softer cultured tones. “Conspiracy among your own men, Willis. Right under your nose, and you didn't even care enough to notice!” He slammed his hands down on the desk in front of Willis, relishing the way the man jumped and blinked nervously. “Did you tell them to keep their doorstep clean?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “Did you want them to silence Reynolds so he didn't spoil your damned statistics?”

“Reynolds had no evidence,” Willis replied, trying to restore his control.

Cowley allowed him no such respite. “You didn't look, you mean.” He straightened up, glaring down at the MI6 controller. “And did you suggest to Jenkins and Morris that Draven should be shot whilst trying to escape?” he demanded. Willis opened his mouth to stammer a denial, but Cowley interrupted him. He pointed his finger at Willis in accusation, secretly overjoyed to see the flinch that Willis could not control. “Don't you dare deny it, Willis. You've played this game before.”

Willis fixed Cowley with a candid look, his face pale and gleaming with a sheen of nervous sweat. “I knew nothing about it,” he said, his voice shaking. He paused to lick his lips, trying to regain his equilibrium. “All I had was the evidence presented to me.”

“And evidence you didn't want to see was ignored,” Cowley interrupted, unwilling to allow Willis even a second to recover. He stared at him, cowing him with the force of his fury. Satisfied at last that Willis was too surprised to continue finding excuses, Cowley finally sat down in the chair opposite the MI6 department controller.

“This is what will happen, Willis,” Cowley continued, back to the warm, cultured tones he used for his more persuasive arguments. “You will release Macklin and Towser. You will cease this harassment of them and Draven. You will recommend your three agents out there consider this an official MI6 investigation, and you will arrange for the immediate arrest and investigation of Jenkins, Taylor, Morris and Lucas for the murder of Reynolds, for destroying evidence in the suicide of Hughes. You will also consider their threats against Hughes, leading to his suicide. Then there is the attempted murder of Peterson by Saunders, and the attempted murder of Draven by Jenkins and Morris. And nothing – nothing – will be swept under the carpet, Willis. And do you know why?”

Willis had listened to the catalogue of crimes with mounting horror, wondering how he could possibly save his position and authority when it became obvious that all this had taken place under his nose, and he had failed to notice or even consider the possibilities. When the controller of a department could be out-thought by his own agents, it was a sign of unpleasant possibilities on the horizon.

He shook his head, wondering what other nightmares Cowley would present him with.

“Because I'll be watching, Willis,” Cowley continued. He stood up calmly. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes,” Cowley quoted smoothly, the Latin phrase mingling with his Scottish accent lyrically. “Who watches the Watchmen, Willis?” He stared down at the man. “The answer is me,” he added quietly.

Willis swallowed noisily as Cowley gathered himself to leave, slipping the cassette from the machine and sliding it back into its case.

“I didn't know,” he said softly. Cowley looked at him sharply. “I swear, I didn't know.”

Cowley could almost pity the man for his pathetic honesty. “But you didn't bother looking,” he replied sadly. “You just wanted a stick to beat me with.” He shook his head. “This isn't a game, man,” he said.

The door clicked shut behind Cowley as he left the office, and Willis leaned forward on his desk, resting his head in his hands.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bodie and Doyle straightened automatically as Cowley emerged from Willis' office. The door closed with a soft click that sounded like a gun being cocked. Murphy remained lounging comfortably against the wall, an expectant look on his face.

Cowley looked around. “Where's Towser?”

“The two MI6 birds went to fetch him,” Doyle replied.

Luke shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Birds,” he mouthed disparagingly.

The sound of the lift arriving prevented Doyle from snapping a comment. The steady sound of heels on the hard floor heralded the arrival of Mitchell and Darrow, Towser striding easily between them.

Cowley approached Towser, a smile on his face and his hand outstretched to shake his firmly. “Glad to see you, Justin,” he beamed, his pleasure sincere.

Macklin remained where he stood, his arms still around Maggie. He met Towser's glance and nodded a welcome.

“What's happening, sir?” Bodie asked, unwilling to wait any longer to find out the outcome of the showdown between Cowley and Willis.

Cowley turned back with a prim look. “We've removed the bugs from Willis' and Peterson's offices,” he lied smoothly.

Luke brief look of surprise was quickly masked. “You bugged me?” he said carefully, as though seeking clarification rather than making an accusation.

Cowley met his gaze steadily. “Aye, laddie,” he said. “We bugged you. And Willis. How else would you explain getting the tapes providing the evidence of Jenkins' and the others' guilt?”

The four men exchanged glances, looking suitably guilty and shifty in equal measure.

“As long as my job is secure,” Luke said at last, his sole concern obvious in his earnest look.

Cowley gave a reassuring smile. “Aye, you're safe,” he agreed quietly. “And so are your two accomplices here.” He nodded to Darrow and Mitchell.

“Well, if it's all the same, sir, I think we'd quite like an explanation as well,” Mitchell asked, the epitome of polite enquiry.

Murphy gave a helpful smile. “I'd be happy to explain it, sir,” he offered casually. Mitchell raised an eyebrow, giving a knowing smile in response. Darrow rolled her eyes as Bodie and Doyle shifted, staring down at their feet, not daring to look at their controller in case he saw the laughter threatening to spill out of them.

“Can we leave?” Maggie asked, a tetchy note of frustration in her voice. It was all very well for CI5 and MI6 to stand around congratulating each other, but she wanted – needed – to get out of the building. It closed in around her, and Macklin's growing tension only added to the feeling of claustrophobia.

Cowley's expression became immediately serious. “Aye, girl – Maggie,” he corrected himself immediately. “You can both leave. Bodie – take them home.”

“Right.” To their surprise, it was Macklin who moved first, taking Maggie by the hand and leading her away. They didn't wait for Bodie, who nodded a quick farewell to his partner, before jogging after them.

“Doyle – take Towser home.” Cowley's instruction interrupted Doyle as he had been about to speak to Darrow. Doyle pursed his lips, cursing his bad timing.

“Yes, sir,” he replied automatically.

They all turned as the door to Willis' office opened, revealing the MI6 controller. He eyed the CI5 men and his own MI6 agents.

“Peterson. Darrow. My office, now,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir,” Darrow replied immediately, stepping smartly past the men to enter Willis' office. Luke gave Cowley one last knowing look before following her.

“Wouldn't I love to be a fly on the wall in there,” Doyle drawled, as they walked away.

“Would you, Doyle?” Cowley asked smoothly. “Oh I think there will be some interesting re-writing of history going on,” he continued. “But I think they'll reach the right outcome in the end.”

“Are you sure of that?” Towser asked.

Cowley turned to give him a reassuring smile. “Certain of it,” he said. “Because if they don't, I expect Peterson will let me know.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

All Macklin wanted to do was get home, wash away the stench of Century House and the filth of MI6, and let Maggie make him forget the horror of the last few days. He knew from the sidelong glances and silence around him that he was making people nervous, uncomfortable even. But he could no sooner control that than he could the burning, buzzing tiredness that made his nerves twang with tension. It was the come-down from an op, a feeling he had once known only too well, and one that he had hoped never to feel again. Action he could cope with, the adrenalin rush of split-second decisions and lightning reflexes. This was different – the adrenalin had built up inside him, but he had been inactive, unable to expend any of the energy burning through his system. And now it was over, and he had still not spent any of the excessive energy his body had produced. It left him raw and ragged, aware of the slightest detail and ready to react to any hint of threat.

No wonder everyone treated him like a bomb about to explode.

Once, he had been able to cope with this. He'd find a way to burn off the excess energy until next time. Now, it simply left him feeling stretched taut, ready to snap. Added to that had been the shock of seeing Maggie shot. The sudden surge of raw anger that had overwhelmed him, the despair that had been building up for hours as he fought with the fear that she was already dead, had made him ready to do the thing Willis had accused him of being capable of. He could willing have murdered anyone who had been close by. Until she had opened her eyes and smiled at him.

The Capri had stopped and Macklin didn't know how long Bodie had been looking at him, expectation in the navy blue eyes. He eyed the house speculatively, remembering that Willis' men had been through the property. He didn't know what to expect inside, and didn't know whether Maggie was aware of the invasion.

“It's not too bad,” Bodie said gently, as though reading his mind.

Macklin's look was sharp, but it softened immediately, almost apologetically. “Thank you, Bodie,” he said. The steel-blue eyes were sincere.

Bodie shifted in embarrassment. “Just doing my job, mate,” he said dismissively. He gave Macklin a fervent look. “Hope I never have to do anything like it again,” he added firmly.

Macklin nodded his appreciation before opening the passenger door to exit the car. He pushed the seat forward, taking Maggie's hand to help her out of the back seat. Once she was out of the car, his long arm wrapped possessively around her again.

“Thanks, Bodie,” Maggie murmured.

Bodie gave her a smile of genuine happiness – none of his usual school-boy charm or suave bonhomie evident in his candid look. “A pleasure, as always, Maggie,” he said. “I'll see you around some time.”

“See you, Bodie,” she replied.

They watched as the silver Capri squealed out of the driveway.

Macklin held her back as she made as if to move towards the door. “MI6 searched the place,” he said. She turned and gave him a questioning look. He saw the flash of horror in her expression. “I don't know what it's going to be like,” he added gently.

She looked away, a sad look crossing her face. Finally, she gave a fatalistic shrug. “Oh well,” she said, her voice sounding small and forced. “Worst comes to the worst, we can move.”

He smiled, shaking his head in bemusement. “There is that,” he agreed.

At least they had used house keys, he thought with grim relief as they pushed the front door open hesitantly. Maggie switched on the hall light as he pushed the door shut. He took a deep breath before turning to view the hallway.

The oak sideboard beside the door where they habitually threw car and door keys was still in place, but the drawers and cupboards hung open, the contents strewn on the floor where drawers had simply been upturned and rifled. Maggie stepped gingerly over the mess towards the lounge, leaning through the open door to switch on the light and view the state of the room. Books had been pulled from the shelves and left scattered haphazardly across the floor. Macklin felt only cold despair as he viewed the wreckage, but it rapidly turned to white hot anger as he saw the sadness in Maggie's eyes. Even that disappeared as he saw her flinch, a flash of pain in her eyes before they closed as she winced. He was beside her before the soft gasp passed her lips, taking her into his arms. She curled forward, cradling her abdomen as the stabbing, twisting cramps tore through her.

He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her.

“Shhh,” he whispered gently into her neck, burying his face into the crease where her throat curved into her shoulder. He leaned back against the wall, pulling her with him as he slid down slowly to sit on the polished wooden floor of the hall. She lay with her back against his chest, his long legs on either side of her, as he made soothing noises, his strong arms tight around her.

“You wait til I get my hands on Willis,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“He's not worth it,” he replied, knowing she didn't believe his dismissive comment for an instant.

He held her while the spasms ripped through her, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath. He pressed his lips against the side of her head, and waited patiently until the attack eased off.

“They're getting worse,” he said gently, unwilling to raise the subject. “What did the doctor say?”

She gave a breathless laugh. “How did you know?”

He shrugged slightly. “You should know better than to ask me that, don't you think?”

She paused, waiting until her breathing was back under control. “He gave me pain killers,” she admitted reluctantly.

“But you don't take them.”

She knew better than to ask how he knew that as well. “No,” she replied. “If I take them now, I'll just need more later. And they make me sleepy.”

His tight embrace relaxed around her, and he removed one arm from her waist, reaching instead to stroke through her long hair tenderly. “Maybe because you need the sleep,” he chided gently. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want it to be true,” she replied simply. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said, running his fingers through her hair soothingly. “But no more secrets.”

“What will happen?” she asked. He heard the tremble in her voice, the fear she tried so hard to hide from him and refused to admit to herself, and smiled.

He urged her around in his arms until she lay against him, her head tucked neatly under his chin, lying against the crook of his shoulder. He felt her breath soft against his throat.

“We retire,” he said simply, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear, although he spoke in a gentle whisper.

“And do what?” The fear that had kept her silent chilled her, terrified of what he would say.

He closed his eyes, content to hold her, to inhale her warm scent. He didn't need her to give voice to any of the thoughts running through her mind. He knew only too well how she would fret and worry over the future. He sighed. “I never want to pick up a gun again,” he said firmly, the stark honesty in his voice dispelling her fears. “The only sights I want to look through are on the telescope we'll have in the garden, in the Lake District or somewhere just as quiet. And you and I will spend the nights doing nothing more than count the stars.”

He felt her sigh gently, and smiled again. All the tension and fears of the last few days seemed so far away now. “I thought you were dead,” he admitted, his voice a soft, broken whisper. He needed to confess the terror that had filled him. “They told me they'd shot you.”

She looked up at him, reaching to stroke his face, forcing him to look at her. “Why did you believe them?”

He opened his eyes, his steel-blue eyes tinged with remembered anguish. “They fired a gun outside the room, then gave me one of your shirts covered in blood,” he told her, his voice a soft whisper.

A frown creased her features as she realised the reason for his anger and tension since their reunion at Century House. “Then you saw me get shot,” she added.

He blinked an affirmative, too weary to nod. “When I left you that day, I didn't think I'd ever see you again,” he whispered, finally giving voice to the fears that had filled him as he'd handed himself over to Willis, leaving her with Luke. “I knew Willis would stop at nothing to put Reynolds' murder on me. And I knew I could never let him near you.” His blue eyes filled with remembered pain. “I thought I'd never see you again,” he repeated. “Then I thought you were dead. And then I saw you get shot.” He stopped speaking abruptly, unable to convey the misery and torment of the last few days.

She reached up to brush her lips against his comfortingly. He closed his eyes, savouring the feel of her lips against his. When she seemed to move away, he lowered his head immediately, chasing her mouth with his own to kiss her again. Kissing her seemed to make her feel more real to him, to banish the last of the hollow emptiness that had haunted him since he had first walked away from her.

Slowly, unwillingly, he broke the kiss, staring down into her face. He smiled tenderly, his blue eyes soft and dark with love as he stroked her face gently, his fingers tracing her features carefully.

“You managed to leave Luke Peterson in one piece, I notice,” he remarked with a teasing smile.

She rolled her eyes melodramatically. “I thought Doyle was going to rip him apart every time they were together,” she said. “Made me feel quite sorry for him.”

“Doyle's not the forgiving type,” Macklin agreed with a wry look.

“But you are, it seems,” she said, a suspicious light in her eyes. “He couldn't quite believe you'd not killed him several times over, once he'd found out we were an item.”

His amusement faded as he considered her words carefully. “It's not an easy thing to explain,” he said at last. “But he's your brother.”

“Half-brother,” she said. “Maybe you could have half killed him.” She grinned mischievously, and Macklin couldn't help but smile in response. She rested her head against his chest again, nuzzling against his neck comfortably.

Half-brother, Macklin pondered, his smile fading now she could no longer see his expression. Except that wasn't the truth, and he knew it. No more secrets, he had said. But this was one secret he could never tell her. It was a truth that, if ever disclosed, would destroy her. If she ever found out he had kept it from her, he didn't know whether she could ever forgive him. But he knew one thing – Maggie could never cope with knowing that Andrew Draven was not her father.

He held her close amid the devastation of MI6's search, and prayed she never – ever – suspected the truth.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Willis strode towards his car, his attention on the keys in his hand. He fumbled through them, hampered by the briefcase he carried in his other hand, before finally selecting the keys for the car and return the others to his pocket. He opened the door of the black Jaguar, sliding into the beige leather interior with a satisfied sigh, relieved to be finally on his way home.

“I've got a car just like this.”

The calm, conversational voice from the back seat startled him. He looked up to the rear view mirror, his heart thudding in his chest in sudden panic.

Maggie leaned forward out of the shadows and smiled. “Working late again, Willis?” she asked, a silken threat in her tone.

Willis looked wide-eyed in fear behind his glasses. “Draven,” he managed at last, barely able to keep the stammer from his voice.

Her smile widened, teeth glinting white in the darkness. It was not a friendly smile. “A little bird tells me,” she said, softly and gently, “that you think I'm the Magpie.”

Long seconds ticked slowly by, the silence stretching ominously between them. Willis watched her in the rear view mirror, oddly reminded of Perseus and Medusa, and unwilling to turn around to look at her properly. Her pale face gave nothing away.

“You are known as Magpie,” he said at last in a reasonable tone of voice. His brown eyes were wide with a kind of pathetic innocence.

She gave him a look of affected disappointment. “Oh, Willis,” she scolded softly. “Don't dissemble. You thought I'm _the_ Magpie.”

He stared at her reflection, a wary look in his dark brown eyes. “And are you?” he asked at last.

She leaned her elbows against the headrests of the front seats, her knees in the gap between them. Her head was almost level with his. She stared into his eyes through the mirror.

“You're asking the wrong question,” she chided gently, an almost sing-song quality to her voice, as though speaking to a young child. “What you should be asking yourself is this -”. She turned to whisper directly into his ear. _“If she is the Magpie, do I really want her to know that I know?”_ Her warm breath tickled the skin of his neck, making him uncomfortably aware of the vulnerability of his position, her teeth so close to his throat. _“If she is the Magpie,”_ she continued, her whisper sending cold shivers down his spine. _“What will she do to someone who knows her identity?”_

“You can't threaten me,” Willis said, his voice sounding harsh after her silken tones.

She affected a look of surprise. “Can't I?” she asked. “Oh, I beg to differ. You see, Cowley isn't the only one with friends in high places. Lots of people owe me some pretty big favours.”

“You didn't exist until two years ago,” Willis said. “We can't even find out how you're paid for the job you do, and no-one is exempt from taxes.”

Maggie laughed at Willis' desperate threat, and he felt a surge of embarrassment for his clumsiness.

“I pay taxes, Willis,” she said, laughing. “You just don't know how.” She regarded his reflection, noticing the slight sweat sheening his forehead. “I'm a ghost, Willis,” she said softly. “I don't exist. And I'll tell you this – if you keep digging, you'll find that you will never have existed at all either. Only you won't be around to enjoy it like me.”

“Cowley can't -” he began sharply.

“Cowley can't,” she interrupted, agreeing with him. “But M can,” she added quietly. “Friends in high places, Willis,” she repeated. “Don't underestimate them.”

He flinched as she slapped a hand against his chest, and he stared in shock at the envelope he saw in her hand. “A bill for the damage your people did to our home,” she said, her voice clipped and curt. “You will pay it, Willis. Don't even think of disagreeing.”

He took the envelope, his breathing rapid with relief. He heard the rear doors slam shut and realised she had left the car. Quickly, he opened his door, stepping out of the car to look for her.

“Draven!” he called to the retreating figure. She turned back and regarded him with hard eyes. He held up the envelope and tried to pull together the shreds of his tattered dignity. “I trust this is reasonable?”

The smile she gave him was predatory, and would make a shark think twice. “Always, Willis,” she said. “Always.”

He swallowed nervously as she turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the car park.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luke lay back against the sofa, eyes closed as he listened to the music filling his apartment. He gave a sigh of pure pleasure. His first day off in six weeks, and all he'd wanted to do was sleep, lounge around the place in his pyjamas, and do nothing else. As plans went, it was as simple as they came. And so far, it had run like clockwork.

So the persistent knocking at his door was an unwelcome distraction, and – as he wasn't expecting anyone, and no-one had buzzed the intercom to let him know they were coming up – an unexpected interruption as well. He toyed with the idea of ignoring it. If it was work, they could at least have telephoned first. If it was anyone else – well, he'd wanted peace and quiet, hadn't he?

Reluctantly, cursing fluently under his breath, he went to the front door, vowing that, if the person he saw through the spy-hole had anything to do with work, collecting for charity, or enquiring about the state of his immortal soul, he'd personally throw them out of the nearest window.

Maggie stared back at him, as though completely aware of his presence behind the solid front door. He paused, considering his options. He hadn't laid eyes on her in the six weeks since Cowley had laid the law down to Willis. He, Darrow and Mitchell had liaised with Bodie and Doyle several times over those weeks, comparing notes on the investigation and assessing evidence. But no mention had been made about her or Macklin in any of that time. He hadn't asked, and they hadn't offered information.

And now, here she was.

He saw her sigh heavily, turning from the door to glance down the corridor, her frustration apparent. And something else. She looked – disappointed, he realised.

He opened the door before he had thought it all through. She looked surprised, then slightly uncomfortable as they stared at each other in silence. She rocked backwards and forwards on her feet awkwardly.

“I wasn't expecting you,” he said at last, mentally kicking himself as he heard the trite words come out of his mouth.

“Well, I didn't exactly call ahead,” she agreed, just as inelegantly. “Some woman downstairs let me in before I could call up.”

“Handy,” he said with a nod.

Silence stretched uncomfortably between them before he realised his rudeness. He stepped back from the door. “Come in,” he said at last.

She couldn't hide the look of relief as she smiled and stepped forward. She followed him into the room. “Sorry to catch you – erm.” She flushed, gesturing with one hand to indicate his clothing. He looked at himself, suddenly realising he was only wearing his cotton lounge pants.

He ran his fingers through his hair, and gave a wry smile. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Sorry about that. First day off for ages.” He gestured for her to sit down, and she sat self-consciously on one of the white sofas. She carried a plastic bag that clinked as she set it down on the floor. He fumbled with the volume control of the stereo, turning the music down until it was only slight background noise, before taking his seat on the sofa opposite her

“I sort of expected you to not let me in,” she said candidly.

He shrugged. “I wasn't going to let anyone in,” he replied. “I just wanted a day to myself.”

She looked away. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Would you rather I left?”

“No,” he said quickly, frowning as he realised how his words had sounded. “No, really,” he said firmly. “I thought it might be work, that's all.”

“You're sure?” The violet eyes, so like his own, stared at him, searching for any sign of irritation.

He smiled warmly, one of the few genuine smiles she had ever seen from him. It was infectious, and she felt her mouth twitch in reply. “I'm sure,” he insisted.

“In that case,” she said, with a deep breath as she reached into the carrier bag she had brought with her. “This is for you.” She placed a bottle of Jameson's whiskey on the glass coffee table with a flourish. “To replace the one I demolished.”

He laughed. “That wasn't necessary,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “But -” She returned to the carrier bag and produced a bottle of Laphroaig Scotch whisky with an even grander flourish. “This is my attempt to educate your palate to a decent whisky.”

His rich, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I'll get the glasses then, shall I?”

She removed her coat as he moved through the apartment, arranging herself more comfortably on the sofa. She hadn't been very sure of her welcome, and his apparent friendliness had taken her by surprise. She almost felt like she could get through this.

He produced two crystal tumblers and watched as she poured a measure of the Laphroaig into each glass.

“Sláinte,” she said with a nod as she raised her glass.

He raised his own glass in reply. “Cheers.” He sipped the amber liquid, allowing it to roll over his taste buds slowly. He gave an appreciative nod. “I could get used to it.”

She laughed. “That's more like it.”

“So – to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked before taking another sip. He avoided looking at her, watching the play of light as the crystal let flecks of gold into the liquid.

She sipped her drink slowly. She should have expected this question; she should have had an answer prepared. But whenever she'd thought about it, she couldn't find one. She just knew she had to do it.

She shrugged. “I'm curious, I suppose,” she said at last. “Why did you kill Saunders?”

The question startled him in its directness, coming completely out of the blue. He blinked rapidly. “I'm sorry – what?” he stammered.

“Saunders,” she repeated, a curious look on her face. “Why did you kill him?”

“You came here to ask me that?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “It's just that I don't know whether Macklin would have killed him; I know Doyle wouldn't have.” She gave a shrug as though weighing possibilities. “I'm not sure about Bodie,” she admitted. “It would all depend on who was watching.” He gave a short laugh at her honest assessment, but her gaze was perfectly candid. “But I know I certainly would have killed him,” she continued firmly. “And you did. Which means that, for all the argument about nature versus nurture, there must be something in this genetics stuff after all.”

He hesitated, masking his confusion by sipping the whisky. To his surprise, the glass was already nearly empty. “It seemed the only way out of the situation,” he said at last.

She nodded, reaching for the bottle of Laphroaig and offering him a refill. He accepted as casually as possible. “I agree,” she said, watching the golden liquid tumble into the glass. “Others may not be so pragmatic, however.”

“Who have you told?” he asked.

“Macklin,” she replied without hesitation. She met his gaze. “I don't lie to Mack. If he asks, I tell him.”

“Who else?”

“No-one else,” she said, placing the bottle back on the table after refilling her own glass. “It's no-one else's business.”

“Cowley might not see it like that.”

“Cowley is the closest thing I've had to a father,” she said, taking a sip of the whisky. “And at times, he's not particularly paternal,” she admitted. “And he would never condone killing Saunders. He doesn't always understand me, and he certainly doesn't often approve of me.” Her violet blue gaze contained only straightforward honesty. “I thought you might want to know that someone else would have done the same thing, even if that someone else was me.”

“You came here to say that?” he asked. “Just to point out that we think alike?”

“I thought it was interesting,” she said. “You see, up until that point, I hadn't seen much similarity between us.”

He gave a short laugh. “Didn't you? Well, we do look fairly similar.”

She stared at him appraisingly. “Yes, there is that,” she allowed, as though the thought had only just occurred to her. His gaze narrowed as he regarded her critically, his smile fading.

“We're never going to play happy families,” he said at last, harsh realism in his tone. He placed his glass carefully on top of the coffee table and turned his indigo gaze on her. “There's no forgive and forget between us.”

She met his unblinking gaze, a shrewd look in her eyes. “I think that's impossible, don't you?” she replied smoothly. “Because of you, I can't wear backless dresses. Because of you, I have to cover my arms in polite company.”

He gave an angry sigh, frustration making his movements sharp and aggressive as he sat back against the sofa, raising one leg to cross the other, his ankle resting on his knee as he stretched out. He lay his arms across the back of the settee, outstretched, almost like a crucifixion.

“That didn't take long, did it?” he snarled angrily.

She sat with her elbows resting on her knees, the crystal tumbler held between both hands as she rolled it between her palms. “I just meant, it's a constant reminder,” she said gently. “It wasn't an accusation.”

He ran his hands through his hair distractedly before reaching for his glass again. “But that's how I'll always think of it,” he said sharply.

She watched him carefully, her eyes narrowing and her lips pursed. “I think you feel guilty about it, and that's why you get so annoyed whenever it's mentioned,” she said.

His hand stopped on the way to taking the glass to his mouth as he fixed her with an angry glare. “Guilty?” he snapped.

She shrugged. “Perhaps. I don't know. I can't say I'm particularly good with guilt myself,” she admitted. “But I know I show it in the strangest ways, apparently. And, as we've seen with the Saunders' matter, we seem quite alike, you and I. Don't you think?”

He licked his lips, tasting the rich warmth of the whisky. “I don't know,” he said, stalling for time.

“Shall I tell you what makes the scars worse?” She chewed her lip nervously, wondering what made her want to tell him her secret fears, wondering why she was trying so hard to build bridges with this man.

He grimaced as he took a mouthful of whisky. He wasn't oblivious to her discomfort, but he didn't know what this was leading to. Maybe he did feel guilty, but he certainly wasn't ready to admit that, not to her or anyone. “What?” he asked harshly.

“Because part of me always thinks they bother Brian,” she admitted. She blinked, her confession more difficult than it appeared. She stared at the glass in her hands again, trying to find inspiration. “Oh he loves me,” she said gently. “I know it. And I know he would never look anywhere else. But still - I'm frightened that one day, someone will knock on the door – some woman. Someone who isn't scarred, who isn't a borderline psychopath, and who is able to have children. All the things I'm not. And he'll suddenly realise what he's missing.” Her voice trembled, and she took a sip of her drink to mask the twitch of her lips. But Luke saw the subtle shake of her hands and the tears threatening to overflow from her suddenly bright eyes. And despite the absurdity of her fear, he could understand the logic of it. It did make sense to him. And her admission meant something else, he knew. She didn't lay her vulnerability open easily, and he could see her reluctance to give voice to her fears. She was telling him something about herself, something he couldn't see her ever telling anyone – even Macklin. She didn't even want to admit them to herself.

“I don't think Macklin would notice another woman if she smacked him over the head with a hammer,” he said with firm conviction.

He knew he had taken the right attitude when she dissolved into giggling laughter, leaning back in the sofa as she relaxed. “That's fear, though, isn't it?” she said with a smile. “Completely irrational.”

He sipped his whisky, draining the glass smoothly before reaching for the bottle again. The warmth of the spirit glowed in his chest, but it was more than that that made him thaw towards the woman sat opposite him. There was something between them, he realised. Some connection that defied everything that had gone on between them in the past. He gave her a questioning look, holding out the bottle in enquiry. She gave a brief nod, leaning forward to accept the refill. He poured a healthy measure into her glass, before pouring the same amount into his own glass.

“We can't forgive each other. We won't forget, and we may not even like each other,” he said at last, replacing the bottle on the table but leaving the cork out. He held the glass towards her in a toast. “But we can understand each other,” he finished softly, a warmth in his violet eyes that was as rare as it was fleeting. “We may not be friends, Maggie,” he added. “But we can probably be family.”

She regarded him carefully, taking in the sensible, reasonable expression on his handsome face. She did understand him, she realised. She could even understand what had made him hunt her down and hand her over for torture. And for his part, he understood what had made her murder his father in cold blood – even why she had shot his mother dead to protect Cowley.

Understanding was something she didn't have from many quarters. Acceptance was rarer. In all her life, only Macklin had ever truly understood her. Doyle had tried, but even he had difficulty with her more callously practical side. Macklin accepted her for what she was, all her sins and transgressions. He understood her. But he wasn't like her, not entirely.

“I can't see us doing Sunday lunch on alternate weekends,” she said with a slow smile. “And to be honest, I haven't got a clue when your birthday is.”

They saluted each other before taking a sip of the whisky, wry amusement in both pairs of almost identical eyes.

“That's okay, I'm crap with dates,” he replied, his answering smile curling his lips.

 

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